I ( 



SELECTIONS 



FROM THE POETRY OF 



LORD BYRON 

EDITED WITH 

AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

FREDERIC IVES CARPENTER, Ph.D. 

Instructor in English, the University of Chicago 



Dir in klar und triiben Tagen 
Lied und Mut war schon und gross. 
// ' Faust,' III, I. 1426. 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

IQOO 



*^ \J> r^ 



j — , 

; NOV 7 1900 

Copynght «,try 

S£CON'D COPY. 






Copyright, 1900, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT & CO. 



ROBERT DRUMMOND, PRINTER, NEW YORK. 



/ SP7 



/j-y 



CONTENTS 



Introduction : page 

I, Two Aspects of Byron : the Man and the Poet , v 

II. The Personal Byron vi 

III. Relation to his Times xiii 

r""". Political Ideas : the Poet of Liberty xix 

V. Ideas on Life, Here and Hereafter, on God, and 

on Religion - . xxii 

VI. Literary Relations xxvi 

VIL Literary Creed and Motives xxx 

VIII. Style and Literary Characteristics .... xxxvii 
IX. Summary : Permanent Elements and Final Posi- 
tion xlvi 

Chronological Outline of the Life of Byron. . . li 

Bibliography Iv 

Selections : 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Parts of Cantos I-II. Can- 
tos III-IV entire) i 

The Prisoner of Chillon 155 

Manfred - 168 

The Dream 213 

Darkness 220 

Mazeppa : The Ride (Sections IX to the end) .... 223 

Don Juan : The Shipwreck (from Canto II) .... 238 

The Isles of Greece (from Canto III) . . . 262 

The Death of Haidee (from Canto IV) . .273 

Cain, Scene I of Act II . , , 279 

iii 



IV CONTENTS 

PACK 

Lyrics : When we two parted 287 

Maid of Athens 288 

And thou art dead 289 

The Glory that was Greece (from the "Gia- 
our") 291 

Know ye the land (from the "Bride of Aby- 

dos") 292 

The Corsair's Song (from the "Corsair") . . 293 
Grecian Sunset (from the "Corsair ") . . . . 294 
She walks in beauty (from the "Hebrew Melo- 
dies") 296 

If that high world (from the " Hebrew Melo- 
dies") 296 

O snatch 'd away in beauty's bloom (from the 

" Hebrew Melodies ") 297 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay (from 

the " Hebrew Melodies ") 297 

The Destruction of Sennacherib (from the 

"Hebrew Melodies") 298 

Stanzas for Music 299 

So, we'll go no more a-roving 300 

Stanzas written on the road between Florence 

and Pisa 300 

Song of the South-Sea Islanders (from the 

"Island") 301 

On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year. . 303 

Notes : To Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 305 

To the Prisoner of Chillon t 34i 

To Manfred 347 

To the Dream. . . '. 375 

To Darkness ..%•.' 379 

To Mazeppa ..-..= 380 

To Don Juan . . . 385 

To Cain 400 

To the Lyrics 402 

Index of First Lines ....,,....,. 411 



INTRODUCTION 



I 

There are two aspects of Byron, almost equally 
attractive to the modern reader, although attractive in 
different ways. There is the personal Byron, vehe- 
mently masculine in most of his habits and doings, yet, 
as Moore and others who knew him report, strangely. 
feminine in some of his traits, and perhaps again, as 
Goethe felt, as strangely immature and like a child 
as soon as he turned to reflection: the whole com- 
pound a brilliant meteoric genius that dazzled the 
eyes of Europe for a short generation. To us this 
Byron becomes a fascinating psychological study, a 
document in humanity, baffling our analysis, as he 
himself baffled his own analysis. For this study it is 
plain that we need all the evidence obtainable, letters, 
journals, the testimony alike of friends, of enemies, 
and of indifferent contemporaries, as well as all the 
verses, the bad with the good, which flowed so readily 
from his incontinent pen. On the other hand there is 
Byron the poet, whom, it is true, we cannot altogether 
separate from the personal Byron, but whom we should 
judge, as we judge other poets, by the best half of his 
work, in which, as Matthew Arnold, a poet writing of 
a poet, so finely says: 

V 



VI INTRO D UCTION- 

"Nature herself seemed to take the pen from him as she took it 
from Wordsworth, and to write for him as she wrote for Words- 
worth, though in a different fashion, with her own penetrating 
simplicity." 

II 

Our enjoyment of Byron as a poet then is greater if 
we confine ourselves to Byron at his best. But Byron's 
poetry at its best is constantly personal, subjective, and 
overflowing with Byron the man. So that fully to 
understand Byron at his best in poetry we are driven 
to study the personal, the inferior, the prose Byron. 
And here we are perpetually beset with the paradox of 
Byron's nature, with the difficulty of disentangling the 
real Byron from the false Byron. For, contradictory 
and complex as are most modern characters, few have 
been more so than Byron. A histrionic strain was 
prominent in him from the beginning, and it was and 
is an offence to sincere and candid souls that not only 
at times his sentiments were evidently put on and worn 
for effect, but also not infrequently he himself did not 
know his own real sentiments, but was the dupe of his 
own imaginings. Nevertheless it is important to 
recognize that, although seldom apparent in his life 
from day to day, or in much of his verse from line to 
line, a fiery and desperate sincerity was at bottom and 
essentially the motive force of Byron's character as of 
Byron's poetry. After we have read all that he wrote, 
no less than after reading only the inspired portions, 
and after following his career step by step, the general 
impression of this returns to us and abides with us. 

The war of the members, the contradictory elements 
in Byron, are ^evident. Byron himself, given to self- 



INTROD UCTIOiV Vll 

analysis, did not fail to notice them. In a letter to 
Miss Milbanke (Sept. i6, 1 8 14?) he relates that his 
head had just been examined by Spurzheim the 
craniologist, 

*' a discoverer of faculties and dispositions from the heads. . . . 
He says all mine are strongly marked, but very antithetical, for 
everything developed in or on this same skull of mine has its 
opposite in great force, so that, to believe him, my good and evil 
are at perpetual war." 

The war of good and evil in the human breast is no 
new or peculiar thing; but Byron's poetry is, as was 
his life, a field where the conflict appears pre-eminently 
desperate and magnificent. 

'' He taught us little ; but our soul 
Had/i"// him like the thunder's roll. 
With shivering heart the strife we saw 
Of passion with eternal law." 

All the passions, at one time or another, were at 
strife within his soul. And yet, early as was the 
maturity of his passionate nature, we can trace the 
development of it through several stages. His ancestry 
and his parentage explain much. His genius remains 
underivable, but his energy, his courage, his love of 
adventure, and the seeds of much that developed later 
into evil and vice with him seem to hold from the 
paternal line; his irritability, waywardness, generosity, 
and occasional self-devotion, the strain of fitful mor- 
bidity in him, and perhaps his latent enthusiasm, from 
the maternal. 

His physical malformation — his congenital lameness 
— reacted upon his sensitive and suspicious nerves 



VlU INTROD UCTION 

and resulted in a vice of temperament. His sudden 
/ and unexpected change of fortune, making him heir to 
a peerage w^hen still a child, was in its effects a mis- 
fortune. Worst of all, however, was the influence 
upon his life of his mother's violent, capricious, and 
hysterical temper. To this Byron, notwithstanding his 
paradoxical affection for her, often alludes with bitter- 
ness. Thus in a letter to his half-sister Augusta, 
written in i8i i, before his cynicism was anything more 
than youthful and nascent, he writes: 

"You must excuse my being a little cynical, knowing how my 
temper was tried in my nonage ; the manner in which I was 
brought up must necessarily have broken a meek spirit, or ren- 
dered a fiery one ungovernable ; the effect it has had on mine I 
need not state." 

Afterwards it was the world at large and especially 
the times in which he lived which had the greatest in- 
fluence in the formation of the character of the great 
English protagonist of a revolutionary age. 

Other traits, essential in Byron, seem latent or 
patent from his youth. There is his pride, — of which 
he was not a little proud. 

*'To the charge of pride I suspect I must plead guilty," he 
writes to Miss Milbanke in 1813 (with some complacency and in 
the role of the interesting lover), "because when a boy and a 
very young one it was the constant reproach of schoolfellows and 
tutors. ... It was, however, originally defensive — for at that 
time my hand like Ishmael's was against every one's and every 
one's against mine." 

Practically all of Byron's heroes are types of that 
proud disdain which Dante and mediaeval writers on 
ethics denominated superbia. Such are Childe Harold, 



INTROD UCTIOJ^ IX 

Manfred, Lucifer in "Cain," the mysterious Giaour, 
and many others. But pride is an inclusive quality, 
and the common attribute of the soul in revolt. Then 
there is Byro'n's suspiciousness and distrust, — the re- 
current feeling that every one's hand was against him. 
There is his melancholy and his moodiness and his 
love of solitude. There is his improvident extrava- 
gance, balanced in later years by freaks of avarice; his 
*' silent rages" and "high impatient temper" ("as 
to temper," he writes in 1813, "unluckily I have 
the reputation of a very bad one"); his little super- 
stitions; his mobility of mood and his wayward in- 
consistency; his combativeness (" I like a row, and 
always did from a boy," he writes); his detestation of 
cant and hypocrisy, as fervent as that of Swift or o| 
Carlyle, but degenerating into bravado and a ' ' habit 
of inverse hypocrisy" which too often led him to 
assume a vice when he had it not. There are, too, 
his other poses and chosen mannerisms, — his pose of 
blighted affections, of mystery and gloom, of man-of- 
the-world-liness; his sentiment, rarely degenerating 
into sentimentality; his eccentricity, his misanthropy, 
and his cynicism. His misanthropy was partly as- 
sumed and a mere mood, but also partly real, and 
the reaction of his revolutionary nature against the 
cant and conventionality of much of the life around 
him. In 1808 he writes to his sister from Newstead: 

**I live here much in my own manner, that is, alone, for I 
could not bear the company of my best friend above a month ; 
there is such a sameness in mankind upon the whole, and they 
grow so much more disgusting every day, that, were it not for a 
portion of ambition, and a conviction that in times like the 
present we ought to perform our respective duties, I should live 



X INTRODUCTION 

here all my life in unvaried solitude. ... I flatter myself I have 
made some improvements in Newstead, and, as I am independ- 
ent, I am happy, as far as any person unfortunate enough to be 
born into this world can be said to be so. " ^ 

And in 1811 to his friend Harness he writes: 

"The circumstances you mention at the close of your letter is 
another proof in favour of my opinion of mankind. Such you will 
always find them — selfish and distrustful. I except none. The 
cause of this is the state of society." 

His cynicism was perhaps as real as cynicism ever 
can be — that is to say, essentially assumed and senti- 
mental; although in ** Don Juan" and through his 
later years it is often truculent and lurid and auda- 
ciously expressed. Yet Byron's cynicism, like his 
other passions, was never cold. 

In later years Byron's character hardened while it 
matured. There was a time in Italy when the baser 
qualities overruled the rest, and he became something 
of the " Inglese italianato " of the proverb. But this 
time was short. At no time had he manifested or 
cared to possess many of the neutral virtues, and his 
early years had been marked and marred by dissipation 
and vices, probably however not greatly beyond the 
not infrequent custom of his times and class. More- 
over, much that is in his letters on this subject is, more 
suo, mainly pose and display. - Yet Byron was always 
frank, if sometimes more than frank, and as ingenuous 
as his imaginative temperament would permit him to 
be. A passage in one of his letters to IMoore, written 
after the break with Lady Byron in 18 16, although 

^ Compare with this the passage in ''Childe Harold," C. Ill, 
stanzas 113, 114. 



INTROD UCTION XI 

referring particularly to that affair, hints fairly enough 
at the causes of Byron's condition generally. 

''My circumstances," he writes, " have been and are in a state 
of great confusion ; my health has been a good deal disordered, 
and my mind ill at ease for a considerable period. Such are the 
causes (I do not name them as excuses) which have frequently 
driven me into excess, and disqualified my temper for comfort. 
Something also may be attributed to the strange and desultory 
habits which becoming my own master at an early age, and 
scrambling about, over and through the world, may have induced. 
I still, however, think that, if I had had a fair chance, by being 
placed in even a tolerable situation, I might have gone on fairly. 
But that seems hopeless, — and there is nothing more to be said." 

After this the last step is to the wilful cynicism of 
*' Don Juan " or the melancholy note of such passages 
as these from letters and journals of his later years: 

"What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, more or 
less ennuy^ ? and that, if anything, I am rather less so now than I 
was at twenty, as far as my recollection serves ? I do not know 
how to answer this, but presume that it is constitutional, — as well 
as the waking in low spirits, which I have invariably done for 
many years. Temperance and exercise, which I have practised 
at times, and for a long time together vigorously and violently, 
made little or no difference. Violent passions did ; when under 
their immediate influence — it is odd, but — I was in agitated, but 
not in depressed spirits. ... I feel a something which makes 
me think that, if I ever reach near to old age, like Swift, 'I 
shall die at top ' first. Only I do not dread idiotism or madness 
so much as he did. On the contrary, I think some quieter 
stages of both must be preferable to much of what men think the 
possession of their senses. " (Journal, Jan. 6, 1821.) 

" As I grow older, the indifference — not to life, for we love it 
by instinct — but to the stimuli of life, increases." (Letter to 
Shelley, Apr. 26, 182 1.) 

" I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of my temper 
and constitutional depression of spirits, — which of course I sup. 



X 1 1 IN TROD UCTION 

press in society ; but which breaks out when alone, and in my 
writings, in spite oi myself." (Letter to Murray. Sept. 20. 1821.) 

Byron, in truth, like the young Elizabethans, and 
especially like INIarlowe, whom he so strangely resem- 
bles in some points of temperament and history, 
crowded much living into few years, — having antici- 
pated life, as he phrased it, in his youth. 

'■' My passions," he writes in his •• Detached Thoughts," •• were 
developed very early. . . . Perhaps this was one of the reasons 
which caused the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts, — hav- 
ing anticipated life.'' 

He bought his knowledge of life dearly, for his own 
ultimate content. For his poetr}^, that is perhaps a 
different matter. If the great lyrical poet is he who 
coins his passionate experience into the minted gold of 
song, such a poet was Byron. Byron's experience and 
his knowledge of life were necessarily but those of one 
man and essentially in one vein, and, so, limited and 
imperfect. He did not live a life of many phases like 
Goethe's, nor was he capable of what was peculiar to 
men like \\'ords\vorth on the one hand or Shelley on 
the other. His intuitions were not so subtle and fine 
as those of Keats or of Coleridge. But at any rate his 
inner life had been intense and passionate, and his 
outer life had led him to a broader outlook upon men 
and nations than that of any of the others except 
Goethe's. This is one thing at least which recom- 
mends Byron to men of the world and to men of other 
tongues. "The pity of these men," he writes to 
IMurray in 1821 with a curious mixture of aristocratic 
vanity and of penetration, speaking of some of the 
chief poets his contemporaries, "is that they never 



IN TROD UCTION XI 1 1 

lived in high Hfe nor in solitude: there is no medium 
for the knowledge of the busy or the still world." 
One side of the busy world at least Byron knew; only 
he was self-deceived into thinking that this side of the 
w^orld was the world, the great world of men. Thus 
we find him writing to Murray in 1820: 

** You talk of refinement : — are you all more moral ? are you so 
moral ? No such thing. / know what the world is in England, 
by my own proper experience of the best of it — at least of the 
loftiest ; and I have described it every where as it is to be found 
in all places." 

Ill 

If Shakspere's dramatic genius was happy in com- 
ing in the great dramatic age of our literature, Byron's 
genius, all high restive impatience, fuming revolt, and^ 
Titanic fire and force, was no less happy in coming in ! 
the great revolutionary age. And yet Byron came too 
late to find himself in sympathy with his own times. 
He caught the inspiration of the movement of en- 
thusiastic liberalism, progress, and re-birth, which 
preceded him. He was deeply influenced by Rous- ■ 
seau, by the example of Plutarch's heroes, of Washing- 
ton, and of Napoleon, so long as Napoleon seemed to 
stand for reconstruction and the new order. But he 
saw the early hopes of reform crumble and he lived the 
greater part of his years in an age of temporary reac- 
tion, when England turned panic-stricken from the 
excesses of the French Revolution, when the Habeas- 
corpus act was suspended for long periods of time and 
every democratic manifestation was rigidly suppressed, 
and when the iniquitous Holy Alliance dominated the 



XIV IN TROD UCTJON 

politics of the continent of Europe. So that Byron's 
world in all its professed beliefs, political, religious, 
and social, was not with him. '^'This opposition doubt- 
less stirred his spirit and stimulated his genius as noth- 
ing else could. We can imagine B}Ton quite in his 
element and at home in the days of the early Revolu- 
tion, or in the days of Fielding and Dr. Johnson in 
England, if he could have been reconciled to any place 
or any time, — for there is a strong residuum of sympathy 
with eighteenth-century ways of thinking and feeling 
in the early Byron as in the later prose Byron; and 
this, which is another of the contradictions in his char- 
acter, must be borne in mind in any attempt to com- 
prehend the whole of his genius. We can also imagine 
Byron more at his ease in the later days of reform 
which came after his death and the later revolutions 
which had their beginning in Italy, Spain, and Greece, 
and for which he gave up his life. But he fell in an 
age of reaction and against his age he strongly battled. 
That his audience was so large through all these years 
proves that the struggle had not been given up and 
that men's minds were still a fertile soil for the seeds 
of revolutionary enthusiasms. 

Much of Byron's opposition to his age was tempera- 
mental, the isolation of a lonely, jealous, and intract- 
able nature. Much of it was purely personal resent- 
ment against the England and the Englishmen who 
had turned against him in 1816 at the time of the 
scandal of Lady Byron's separation from him. '* I 
abhor the nation and the nation me," he writes to 
Murray in 181 7, and this feeling remained with him 
pretty constantly to the end. But whatever its genesis 



IN TROD UCTION XV 

it was essentially a sincere enough antipathy to what 
was narrow and provincial and false in the ideals and j 
the life of the England of the first quarter of this cen- 
tury, especially of that section of the life of England 
which Byron had touched and known. 

Already in 1811 through his first journey abroad 
Byron had freed himself from what he calls " the bitter 
effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices 
of an islander." The effect of his later life was to 
emancipate him pretty thoroughly from the domina- 
tion of current English ideals and prejudices. Byron 
in his way is fundamentally a poet of emancipation, — lx' 
perhaps too exclusively so, but effectively so at least. 
And we can trace in his life step by step how he freed 
himself and was set free by others from all the sanctions 
and bonds of the social order from which he emerged. 
The impatience, the resolution not to submit and 
endure, which is the keynote of his character, could 
brook nothing but this complete emancipation. After 
it came, he, or at least his poetry, was the better for 
it. His relief finds expression in a letter to Moore in 
1822: 

"As my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely 
not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its favour ; but 
I think it, as now constituted, fatal to all great original undertak- 
ings of every kind. I never courted it then, when I was young 
and high in blood, and one of its ' curled darlings ' ; and do you 
think I would do so now, when I am living in a clearer atmos- 
phere ? One thing only might lead me back to it, and that is to 
try once more if I could do any good in politics ; but not in the 
petty politics I see now preying upon our miserable country." 

All of the picturesque superficies of the society of his 
day Byron had come in contact with and reflects in his 



XVI IN TROD UCTION 

letters or his verse, — the dandyism, the club life and 
the high play, the dissipation in fashionable society, 
the blue-stockings and the rage for literary lions, the 
waltz in its newness, the salons, the literary breakfasts 
at Rogers', the pugilism, the calamities and quarrels of 
authors, and the rest. The constructive ideals of his 
greater verse are concerned with other things, but his 
satiric and destructive verse is largely directed against 

^ the abuses of English society. In the ' ' Age of Bronze, ' ' 
a poem on the revival of the movement for national 
liberty in 1820, in which Byron shows himself most 
openly the poet of the Revolution, after reviewing the 
aspects of contemporary Continental politics, he turns 
to satirize the vices of England and especially the greed 
of her dominant class, the landlords. After the close 
of the Napoleonic wars, during which, owing to the 
exclusion of the greater part of foreign competition, 
these gentry had profited exceedingly by the high rents 
they were able to exact from the farmers of their lands, 

; they set themselves doggedly against reform and lower 
rents. These Byron attacks : 

'' Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now z/wcountry gentlemen ? 
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease. 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For wliat were all these country patriots bom? 
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of com ? 
But com, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 
He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices ; 



IN TROD UCTION XVI 1 

He amplified to every lord's content 
The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent. 
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
And acres told upon the appointed day. 

****** 
Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
And patriotism, so delicately nice, 
Her loaves will lower to the market price. 

****** 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle. Why ? For rent ! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions. Why? For rent ! 
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant 
To die for England. Why then live ? For rent ! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with everything, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! " 

^ But Byron's chief satiric animus was against the 
corruption and the cant of the day. It was, writes 
Mr. Henley, 



XVlll IN TROD UCTION 

'' a dreadful age, no doubt: for all its solid foundations of faith 
and dogma in the Church and of virtue and solvency in the State, 
a fierce, drunken, gambling, 'keeping,' adulterous, high-living, 
hard-drinking, hard-hitting, brutal age. But it was Byron's ; and 
' Don Juan ' and ' The Giaour ' are as naturally its outcome as 
'■ Absalom and Achitophel ' is an expression of the Restoration, 
and ' In Memoriam ' a product of Victorian England. 

"As to the cant of the day," writes Byron in 1819, " I despise 
it, as I have ever done all its other finical fashions, which become 
you as paint became the ancient Britons." And in 182 1 : '■'■ And 
after all, what is the higher society of England ? According to 
my own experience and to all that I have seen and heard (and I 
have lived there in the very highest and what is called the best) 
no way of life can be more corrupt. ... In England the only 
homage which they pay to virtue is hypocrisy. I speak of course 
of the tone of high life, — the middle ranks may be very virtuous." 

And once again in a passage in his *' Letter on 
Bowles' Strictures on Pope " : 

"The truth is that in these days the gTZXid. primuni mobile oi 
England is c^nt ; cant political, cant poetical, cant religious, 
cant moral ; but always cant, multiplied through all the varieties 
of life. It is the fashion, and while it lasts will be too powerful for 
those who can only exist by taking the tone of the time. I say 
cant, because it is a thing of words, without the smallest influence 
upon human actions ; the English being no wiser, no better, and 
much poorer and more divided amongst themselves, as well as 
far less moral, than they were before the prevalence of this verbal 
decorum." 

Byron certainly was not one of those who exist only 
by taking the tone of the time. However mixed were 
his motives, and however exaggerated the indictment 
he draws, the whole course of his life, as of his writings, 
was sincerely in protest against what was fundamentally 
outworn and false and hypocritical in the social organ- 
ization of the day. The smug unintelligence of the 



JNTEOD UCTION XlX 

contemporary treatment of Byron alone is sufficient to 
furnish the measure of the age. 

IV 

The substance of Byron's criticism of life, translated 
into prose, is mainly interesting from the historical 
point of view and in its relation to his times. The 
high revolutionary spirit, the passionate outcry against 
all that imposes upon and enslaves the human will, 
the yearning after an ideal quite other than and differ- 
ent from that towards which most human life is aiming, 
the apotheosis of struggle and energy and boundless 
force, which mark Byron at his greatest, are rather 
matters of spirit than of substance, and can be felt and 
recognized as interpenetrating his poetry, but cannot 
be subtracted and isolated from it. 

Among the positive ideas of Byron's mind, among 
the few fixed principles ^ to which he was constant, a 
«^ love of liberty in all the senses of the word and a 
t sympathy with freedom and free institutions were 
perhaps the most constant. And this in spite of certain 
deductions that must be allowed on the score of the 
more superficial prejudices engendered by Byron's 
aristocratic training and associations. In this matter 
Byron thoroughly attested his sincerity by his acts, in 
his short parliamentary career, in his participation in 
the Carbonari movement in Italy, as well as by his 

^ " Lord Byron's was a versatile and still a stubborn mind ; it 
wavered, but always returned to certain fixed principles." (Col- 
onel Stanhope — associated with Byron in Greece — as quoted in 
Moore's Life of Byron.) 



XX IN TROD UCTION 

self-devotion and fatal self-sacrifice in the cause of 
Greek emancipation. The superficial Byron, Byron 
the lord, the Byron of the letters and the controversial 
tracts, may at times appear as a lukewarm republican. 
As, for example, when in the course of his controversy 
with Southey he writes as follows: 

''It is the fashion to attribute everything to the French Revo- 
lution and the French Revolution to everything but its real cause. 
That cause is obvious — the government exacted too much, and 
the people could neither give nor bear more. . . . Acts, — acts on 
the part of government, and not w^ritings against them, have 
caused the past convulsions, and are tending to the future. I 
look upon such as inevitable, thovigh no revolutionist : I wish to 
see the English constitution restored, and not destroyed. Bom 
an aristocrat, and naturally one by temper, with the greater part 
of my present property in the funds, what have / to gain by a 
revolution? " 

But with this utterance should bo compared what 
Byron wrote to Leigh Hunt in 1816 explaining why 
he was not more active in Parliament. The corruption 
and conservatism of the House, he hints, make it use- 
less for him to address it, 

''feeling, as I trust I do, independently. However, when a 
proper spirit is manifested ' without doors, ' I will endeavour not 
to be idle within. Do you think such a time is coming ? Me- 
thinks there are gleams of it. My forefathers were on the other 
side of the question in Charles' days, and the fruit of it was a 
title and the loss of an enormous property. If the old struggle 
comes on, I may lose the one, and shall never regain the other ; 
but no matter : there are things, even in this world, better than 
either." 
Or again, when in 1821 he writes: 

"There must be an universal republic, — and there ought to be." 
Or his enthusiasm for the liberation of Italy: 



INTROD UCTION XXI 

"It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, 
who or what is sacrificed. It is a grand object — the very poetry 
of politics. Only think — a free Italy ! Why, there has been 
nothing like it since the days of Augustus." 

Or similarly the verses declaring for a French republic : 

" France hath twice too well been taught 
The ' moral lesson ' dearly bought — 
Her safety sits not on a throne 
With Capet or Napoleon ! 
But in equal rights and laws, 
Hearts and hands in one great cause — 
Freedom, such as God hath given 
Unto all beneath his heaven. ..." 

Or the sympathy with the cause of Poland expressed 
in "The Age of Bronze"; or his execration in the 
same poem upon Napoleon's betrayal of the cause of 
liberty : 

" A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betrayed : 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven." 

Or again there is his constant sympathy with America 
as the land of freedom, as when he writes in 1821 : 

"Whenever an American requests to see me (which is not un- 
frequently) I comply, firstly, because I respect a people who ac- 
quired their freedom by their firmness without excess ; and, 
secondly, because these trans-Atlantic visits . . . make me feel 
as if talking with posterity from the other side of the Styx. In a 
century or two the new English and Spanish Atlantides will be 
masters of the old countries, in all probability, as Greece and 
Europe overcame their mother Asia in the older or earlier ages, 
as they are called." 

But the classical passage in Byron declaring his faith 
in the ultimate freedom of man are the stanzas in 



XXll INTROD UCTIOJSr 

" Childe Harold " in defence of the French Revolution 
(Canto III, stanzas 82-84). 

It is worth while to multiply examples on this head, 
for the sincerity of Byron's loyalty to the cause of 
political freedom has sometimes in recent years been 
questioned.^ A poet has the right to be judged by 
his best, and Byron surely has the right to be ranked 
with Milton and Shelley as the third great English 
poet of republican liberty. 



A SECOND great subject on which the substance of 
Byron's belief apart from the form perhaps admits of 
statement and illustration is the question of his pes- 
simism and scepticism, of his creed in matters philo- 
sophical and religious, — in brief of his attitude to the 
great problems of human destiny, faith, and duty. 
Not that Byron's mind was essentially philosophical 
like Wordsworth's, or that his philosophy of life (if 
indeed he ever attained any fully articulate philosophy 
of life) is of permanent interest or importance apart 
from his poetry. But that his views on these subjects, 
essentially the expression of fundamental mood and 
temperament as they are, are extremely powerful ex- 
pressions of mood and are only to be fully understood 
if studied in connection with his career and in their 
connection with one another. 

Here too, as everywhere in Byron, we meet a certain 
formal and superficial contradiction and inconsistency 
in his utterances. ;' At times he disclaims disbelief and 

^ As, for example, by Elze, '' Life of Byron," 358. 



INTRODUCTION XXlll 

wishes to be thought a conservative. More often he 
gives free and full utterance to the doubt that is in his 
nature and to the black despair that governs his mood. 
The strain of conservatism in Byron's nature was 
doubtless genuine and he was, as he asserted, no 
atheist. 

He, however, was alive to modern doubts, and, 
earlier than Leopardi and Amiel and Schopenhauer, 
was infected with that disease of modern thought 
which was the malady of those distinguished and 
unhappy spirits. Moreover he had the penetration to 
recognize it as a disease. 

*' I am no bigot to infidelity," he writes to Gifford in 1813, 
<'and did not expect that, because I doubted the immortality of 
man, I should be charged with denying the existence of God. It 
was the comparative insignificance of ourselves and our world, 
when placed in competition with the mighty whole of which it is 
an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to 
eternity might be overrated. This, and being early disgusted 
with a Calvinistic Scotch school, where I was cudgelled to church 
for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me with this malady; 
f )r, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as much as 
other kinds of hypochondria." 

'In a certain sense " Manfred " and '* Cain " may be 
called studies in doubt; they are certainly Byron's 
greatest poetical expression of his speculative moods 
and ideas. Many passages from his letters and journals 
read like commentaries upon these poems. As thus, 
when he writes to Miss Milbanke in 1814: 

"Why I came here, I know not. Where I shall go to, it is 
useless to inquire. In the midst of myriads of the living and the 
dead worlds — stars — systems— infinity — why should I be anxious 
about an atom ? " 



XXIV IN TROD UCTION 

As we trace his creed through his writings certain 

points seem fairly well fixed in Byron's mind. In his 

earlier and middle years he strongly doubts individual 

^/immortality. Thus he writes to his friend Hodgson ^ 

in 1811 : 

" I will have nothing to do with your immortality; we are 
miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating 
upon another. If men are to live, why die at all ? and if they die, 
why disturb the sweet and sound sleep that ' knows no waking ' ? 
... I hope I am sincere ; I was so at least on a bed of sickness 
in a far-distant country, when I had neither friend, nor comforter, 
nor hope, to sustain me. I looked to death as a relief from pain, 
without a wish for an after-life, but a confidence that the God 
who punishes in this existence had left that last asylum for the 
weary." 

Of a similar tenor is the following: 

" Of .the two, I should think the long sleep better than the 
agonised vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling so to any- 
thing like life, that they probably would prefer damnation to 
quiet. Besides, they think themselves so important in the crea- 
tion, that nothing less can satisfy their pride — the insects ! " 

Later his opinions on this subject were somewhat 
altered. In 182 1 he writes in his journal: 

''It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a 'grand 
peut-etre ' — but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it, — 
the stupidest and dullest and wickedest of human bipeds is still 
persuaded that he is immortal." 

And again, in his *' Detached Thoughts " : 

' ' Of the immortality of the soul it appears to me that there can 
be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the action of the mind : 

' Apropos of the opening stanzas of Canto II of " Childe 
Harold." 



INTROD OCT ION XXV 

it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt of it, but reflection 
has taught me better. . . . How far our future life will be indi- 
vidual, or rather, how far it will at all resemble our present exist- 
ence, is another question ; but that the mind is eternal seems as 
probable as that the body is not so." 

In revealed religion Byron apparently did not 
believe. In 1807 he asserts that he is a deist; and in 
1 8 1 1 he writes to Hodgson : 

'•I do not believe in any revealed religion, because no religion 
is revealed : and if it pleases the Church to damn me for not 
allowing a nonentity, I throw myself on the mercy of the ' Great 
First Cause, least understood ' who must do what is most proper ; 
though I conceive He never made anything to be tortured in an- 
other life, whatever it may in this." 

And to Miss Milbanke in 1813 : 

"I believe doubtless in God, and should be happy to be con- 
vinced of much more. If I do not at present place implicit faith 
in tradition and revelation of any human creed, I hope it is not 
from want of reverence for the Creator but the created. ..." 

Against the doctrine of eternal punishment, as already 
appears, Byron stood firm. As he writes in his scoffing 
and satirical vein in his " Vision of Judgment " : 

" I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction, 
I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so." 

And in his " Detached Thoughts " : 

" A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd, ex- 
cept for purposes of punishment ; and all punishment which is to 
revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong ; and when 



XXVI INTROD UCTION 

the world is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eter- 
nal tortures answer ? " 

The doctrine of the final reconciliation of good and 
evil is proclaimed in ' ' Heaven and Earth ' ' : 

"The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all things ; 

And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 

Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! " 

VI 

Byron's literary affiliations and his relation to con- 
temporary literature in England are as curious and 
apparently as paradoxical as most other things in his 
life and opinions. \ His sources are largely in the 
eighteenth century both in its revolutionary and its 
pre-revolutionary periods ; and he professed a profound 
admiration for the poetry of Pope, whose genius and 
fame he vigorously defended in his generation. This 
profession was doubtless genuine enough so far as his 
critical and conscious judgment was concerned. But 
the real Byron, the inspired Byron, in his own poetry 
was in almost everything the very opposite of Pope. 
Where Pope was epigrammatic and balanced and 
restrained and polished and shining with a merely dry 
light, Byron was abounding, unequal, negligent, and 
lurid with the red flames of elemental passion. In 



INTROD UCTION XXVll 

satire like ** The English Bards " and the " Hints from 
Horace" Byron imitated Pope as well as his intract- 
able temperament would allow; and doubtless his 
early study of Pope was not without strong influence 
(though inconsiderable in comparison with that of his 
Italian models) in the development of his later and 
highly original vein of mordant and cynical and 
audacious satire in " Don Juan." But Byron, if he 
belonged to any school at all, was one of the Roman-, 
tics. Romanticism as opposed to classicism character- 
izes the great bulk of his work. A certain strain of 
sardonic or purposely prosaic realism which now and 
then crops out in his verse is decidedly non-romantic, 
it is true, and his romanticism was of a very different 
type from that of Shelley and Keats. To Scott and in 
some measure to Coleridge he owes more. The idea 
and the movement of his romantic verse-tales, as 
literary forms, are partly modelled upon Scott, and 
to Scott and to Coleridge he was indebted for the 
free four-stress verse employed in several of them. 
With " Christabel " he had early become acquainted, 
— indeed long before its publication; and it strongly 
caught his fancy. There are touches of Coleridgean 
romanticism in the verse of his middle period, as in 
the following lines from "The Siege of Corinth," — • 
although Byron protested that they were written before 
he had heard " Christabel " recited: 

''There he sate all heavily, 
As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 
Sent that soft and tender moan ? 



XXVlii INTRODUCTION' 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So^^did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! " 

To the Elizabethan romanticists he owes little 
directly. Indebtedness to Marlowe he disavowed. 
Shakespere he knew as all the great modern poets 
know him; but he quotes Falstaff and " Henry IV" 
perhaps quite as often as the great tragedies. Of the 
spirit and system of the Elizabethan drama he dis- 
approved. And from Spenser he takes only the stanza 
and some of the sporadic archaisms of " Childe 
Harold." Byron affected originality and mdepend- 
ence, but he was essentially original and independent. 
" Childe Harold " and " Don Juan " are new types of 
poetry, — new at least in English. The former is in 
some measure romantic. It appeals in the romantic 
manner to the sense of novelty and w^onder, to the 
spirit of adventure, and to the historical and topo- 
graphical imagination; the verse-tales that followed are 
even more romantic and remote from realism; ** Don 
Juan," however, can scarcely be called romantic in 
manner more than classical or realistic; it is sui generis, 
and the doubtful and luxuriant flower of that literary 
cosmopolitanism towards which the circumstances of 
his life turned Byron's genius in his later years. 

Of contemporary poets and poetry, even before the 



IN TROD UCTION XXIX 

full development of his cosmopolitan ideas, and largely 
in consequence of his fanatical admiration for Pope, 
the prose and critical Byron entertained a low opinion. 

"With regard to poetry in general," he writes to Murray in 
1817, "I am convinced, the more I think of it, that he [Moore] 
and all of us — Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — 
are all in the wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon 
a wrong revolutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a 
damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are 
free ; and that the present and next generations will finally be of 
this opinion. I am more confirmed in this by having lately gone 
over some of our classics, particularly Pope, whom I tried in this 
way, — I took Moore's poems and my own and some others, and 
went over them side by side with Pope's, and I was really aston- 
ished (I ought not to have been so) and mortified at the ineffable 
distance in point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagination, 
passion, and invention, between the little Queen Anne's man and 
us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon it, it is all Horace then 
and Claudian now among us; and if I had to begin again, I would 
mould myself accordingly." ^ 

Dis aliter visum: the influence of the time-spirit was 
too strong for him, and Byron became what he was in 
spite of himself. 

' Compare Shelley's penetrating comment upon his opinions in 
1821 after Byron had come under the additional influence of Ital- 
ian classicism: "We talked a great deal of poetry and such 
matters last night ; and, as usual, differed — and I think more than 
ever. He affects to patronise a system of criticism fit only for the 
production of mediocrity ; and, although all his finer poems and 
passages have been produced in defiance of this system, yet I rec- 
ognise the pernicious effects of it in the Doge of Venice [* Marino 
Faliero']; and it will cramp and limit his future efforts, however 
great they may be, unless he gets rid of it." 



XXX IN TROD UC TION 



VII 



Byron's motives and methods, and his conception 
and ideal of poetry, are not easily defined. There are 
here as everywhere the two sides of Byron, often in 
apparent contradiction. '- The love of fame doubtless 
was a constant motive with him. 

" Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart; 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless will fall the Spectre's dart. 

Consumed in Glory's blaze," 

he cries in a copy of youthful verses written at Harrow. 
And throughout his letters his eagerness for fame is 
evident, however masked by the affectation of indiffer- 
ence. But his love of fame did not draw him out of 
his orbit. His independence and his energy of will 
were greater motives. In 1814 after the early success 
of the first part of " Childe Harold," when for the 
moment he feared that his vein was exhausted, he 
writes to Moore : 

** I have had my day, and there's an end. The utmost I expect, 
or even wish, is to have it said in the Biographia Britannica that 
I might perhaps have been a poet had I gone on and amended. 
My great comfort is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung 
from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prej- 
udices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never con- 
cealed a single thought that tempted me. They can't say I have 
truckled to the times, nor to popular topics. . . . " 

f / 

j It was not the contemplative life,^ in which Words- 
worth's ideal was placed, which could attract Byron; 
nor the aesthetic life for which Keats yearned; nor 



INTRODUCTION XXXI 

Shelley's life of ideals and visions. His was a motor 
temperament, and activity, movement, sensation, 
passion, were the breath of his nostrils. 

"You don't like my 'restless' doctrines," he writes to Miss 
Milbanke in 1813; "I should be very sorry if you did; but I can't 
stagnate nevertheless. If I must sail let it be on the ocean no 
matter how stormy — anything but a dull cruise on a land lake with- 
out ever losing sight of the same insipid shores by which it is 
surrounded." And again : " The great object of life is sensation — 
to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this ' craving void ' 
which drives us to gaming, to battle, to travel, to intemperate but 
keenly felt pursuits of any description, whose principal attraction 
is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment." / 

So, in the " Deformed Transformed," he writes: 

" From the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion; and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
- Of life." 

Animation, he says somewhere, is the chief secret of 
woman's beauty. And in 181 8, after describing a 
Venetian girl whom he admired, — " with large black 
eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a Juno; 
tall and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, 
and her dark hair streaming in the moonlight," — he 
goes on to add: " I like this kind of animal, and am 
sure that I should have preferred ]\Iedea to any woman 
that ever breathed. '' His temperament was active 
and pugnacious. " In the words of the tragedian 
Liston, ' I love a row,' " he says. The grandson of a 
famous admiral and the descendant of Norman warriors 
ana of cavalier knights, it was in his blood to delight 
in struggle and passion and the active life. His poetry 



XXXll INTRODUCTION 

he chiefly valued for himself as an outlet to the seething 
springs of emotion within his breast. 

" I by no means rank poetry or poets high in the scale of intel- 
lect," he writes to Miss Milbanke in a very significant passage 
only recently published. '• This may look like affectation, but it 
is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose 
eruption prevents an earthquake. ^ They say poets never or rarely 
go mad. Cowper and Collins are instances to the contrary (but 
Cowper was no poet). It is, however, to be remarked that they 
rarely do, but are generally so near it that I cannot help thinking 
rhyme is so far useful in anticipating and preventing the disorder. 
I prefer the talejits of action — of war, or the senate, or even of 
science, — to all the speculations of these mere dreamers of another 
existence (I don't mean religiously, but fancifully) and spectators 
of this apathy. Disgust and perhaps incapacity have rendered 
me now a mere spectator; but I have occasionally mixed in the 
active and tumultuous departments of existence, and in these 
alone my recollection rests with any satisfaction, though not the 
best parts of it." 

In a certain sense Byron's poetry was the overflow 
of his feelings and a transcript of his life. In this 
sense at least Byron was a great lyrical poet; for, 
although the singing quality and the musical element 
in his verse are often defective, seldom has the subjec- 
tive and personal element in lyric poetry received more 
complete and powerful expression than in Byron's 
poetry. Byron's own generation made the mistake of 
supposing the invention and the detail of his poetry 
to be quite as much a transcript of his life as the 

1 Similarly he writes to Moore in 1821 concerning the writing of 
poetry. "... It comes over me in a kind of rage every now and 
then, . . . and then, if I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. . . . 
I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a 
pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain/' 



JNTROD UCTION XXX i i 1 

motives and the moods and the ideals. Everything in, 
Byron's verse, it is true, is centered in the portraiture 
of an ideal hero, and there is something of Byron in 
all of these heroes; but rather the ideal of Byron than 
the facts of Byron. And the likeness usually flatters 
his worser traits. No lyrical poetry of any great sort 
can be a literal transcript of the poet's lite. Experi- 
ence must be transmuted and idealized before it is fit 
material for verse. This Byron understood well 
enough, although in some of his verse the idealizing 
imagination is less in evidence than in other. Thus, 
"almost all 'Don Juan,'" Byron tells us, "is real 
life, either my own, or from people I knew." And 
elsewhere: " I could not write upon anything, without 
some personal experience and foundation." But in 
another place he writes of the charge that he is 
responsible for the opinions which he puts into the 
mouths of his characters: 

"My ideas of a character may run away with me: like all im- 
aginative men I of course embody myself with the character while 
I draw it, but not a moment after the pen is from off the paper." ^ 

The peculiar thing about Byron, however, is what 
has been called "his strange incontinence of lan- 
guage." He has no reticence, and the cacoethes 
scrihendi too often appears to be in him a disease. 
Byron is frank, but at times we would prefer not to be 
admitted so freely into his confidence. This doubtless 
Moore and his committee felt when they destroyed 
Byron's posthumous prose autobiography. On the 
other hand, although he may equivocate, we kno\y 

1 Cf. his letter to Murray of Aug. 9, 1819. 



XXXIV JNTROD UCTION 

that he conceals nothing of his mind from us, but is 
sure to blab in the end. At the same time also, in his (^ 
effort to express everything, he expresses more than \ 
himself, more than his real mind. The exaggerations 
and audacities of his poetry are often not the real 
Byron, but a factitious and portentous Byron whose 
image the poet is trying to impose upon us. The real \ 
Byron is more human, and is not so terrible and so \ 
wicked after all. 

Byron's effective conception of the nature and func- 
tion of poetry, in spite of his paradoxical worship of 
Pope, was essentially that of his period. His practice 
exemplified Wordsworth's theory that "poetry is the / 
spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings," and that ^ 
" it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tran- 
y/ quillity; ^ the emotion is contemplated till, by a species 
of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and 
an emotion, kindred to that which was before the sub- 
ject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does 
itself actually exist in the mind. " Or again as Words- 
worth wrote, "The poet is chiefly distinguished from j 
other men by a greater promptness to think and feel 
without immediate external excitement, and a greater 
power in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are 
produced in him in that manner." Byron's range of 
emotions was very different from Wordsworth's, but 
the poetic process seems to have been the same. " As 
for poesy, " he says, ' ' mine is the dream of the sleeping 
passions; when they are awake I cannot speak their 

1 Cf. Byron's remark: '■'■... My first impressions are always 
strong and confused, and my memory selects and reduces them to 
order, like distance in the landscape. ..." 



INTROD UCTION XXXV 

language." The abstracting and visionary power was 
very strong in Byron's temperament. 

For Byron poetry was a matter of inspiration, as for 
most of the Romantics, and not mainly an art or a 
trade of life. "A man's poetry," he writes, " is a 
distinct faculty, or Soul, and has no more to do with , 
the every-day individual than the inspiration with the 
Pythoness when removed from her tripod." ^ Poetry, 
he holds, should be creative and Promethean, 

'•For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate, 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
So be it: we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which still recoils from its encumbering clay 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards." ^ 

The operation of poetry he has exactly described in 
a famous stanza in " Childe Harold " : 

" 'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 

' Cf. similarly Byron in Trelawny's '' Records of Shelley, Byron, 
and the Author," 22. 

2 "The Prophecy of Dante," Canto IV. 



XXXVl INTRODUCTION 

What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feeling's dearth." 

That the poet is essentially seeking an ideality, 
Byron too, at his best, felt, as well as Shelley. Yet 
Byron rather feels with Marlowe the unattainability of 
ideal beauty. As Marlowe cries: 

'' If all the pens that ever poets held 
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts, 
****** 

If these had made one poem's period, 
And all combined in beauty's worthiness,^ 
Yet should there hover in their restless heads 
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least, 
Which into words no virtue can digest." 

So Byron : 

" Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation : — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
****** 

Nor worth nor beauty dwell's from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such," ^ 

What most distinguishes Byron's conception of 
poetry, however, is his insistence that the end of poetry 
is passion, emotion, movement. "I can never," he 
writes, "get people to understand that poetry is the 
expression of excited passion, and that there is no such 

1 I.e. honor, praise, worship. 
2 "Childe Harold," Canto IV, sts. 122, 123. 



INTROD UCTION xxxvil 

thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous 
earthquake, or an eternal fever." The expression of 
passion, this surely was Byron's great gift, in which he 
surpassed all others of his generation, however much 
he fell behind them in certain other gifts. 



VIII 



The style of Byron's poetry reveals his genius freely, 
and requires little further analysis. It is marked by 
passion, verve, fire, concentration, a careless energy, 
rapidity of movement, unevenness, sharp contrasts of 
emotion and manner; at its worst by laxness, in- 
coherency, and a certain vulgarity; at its best by in- 
credible ease and effectiveness. His diction and 
vocabulary are adequate and rich, without being curi- 
ous. As Professor Courthope says, " alone among his 
contemporaries he understood how to swell the stream 
of English poetical diction as it had come down to 
him from the eighteenth centur}-, so as to make it an 
adequate vehicle of expression for romantic thought 
and feeling. Wordsworth speaks the language of 
philosophers, Shelley of spirits, but Byron of men." 

Byron is not great as a stylist; he was too careless 
and disdainful of form for that. His manner is essen- 
tially that of impromptu, — at its best the impromptu 
of genius and inspiration, it is true; but still im- 
promptu. His high impatient temper refused the 
labor of the file. He would amplify, or substitute an 
entirely new act or passage for one which was judged 
inferior, but he would not polish and revise. 



XXXVlll INTROD UCTION 

''I can't furbish," he writes to Murray in 1820. ''I am like 
the tiger (in poesy); if I miss the first spring, I go growling back 
to my jungle. There is no second; I can't correct; I can't, and I 
won't." 

It is difficult, as Mr, J. A. Symonds has pointed out 
in his admirable essay on Byron, for our generation, 
trained to an exacting taste for all the subtleties of 
poetical art, to appreciate a style void of subtlety, full 
of technical defects in matters of detail, and great only 
in the mass and in a few pre-eminent qualities. 
Byron's poetry must be read not for the lingering 
sweetness or the curious felicity of the line or the 
phrase, but for the sweeping magnificence of long 
passages, the effectiveness of large masses, and its 
power in wholes. In these at his best he always 
attains his ends and never fails of his effect.^ He 
cared little for fine phrases — which Keats used to dote 
upon like a lover. Phrasing for its own sake was an 
offence to him. He writes in one of his Diaries in 
1821: 

"I have been reading Frederic Schlegel till now, and I can 
make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of words, 
but there is nothing to be taken hold of. ... I like him the 
worse . . . because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; 
and, lo ! he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving 
a rather rich confusion." 

There is much of the positivist in Byron, — a grasp 
upon substance and sense, and a this-worldliness, 
which separate him widely from the other Romanticists. 

1 "Like paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The 
great art is effect, no matter how produced." (Byron, in Medwin's 
'•Conversations," 133.) 



INTROD UCTION XXXIX 

At times, as in parts of " Don Juan," he becomes out 
and out a realist. 

The self-conscious reader, who refuses to submit 
himself to the fascination of Byron's movement and 
the sway of his verse, easily discovers in this poetry a 
sort of unconcealed artifice which a more cunning 
workman would have kept hidden, — mannerisms and 
devices which, being thus revealed, are forthwith 
classed as rhetorical or melodramatic. The broken 
and exclamatory style of the following passage from 
*' Lara, " for example, is highly characteristic of Byron : 

'* 'Twas midnight — all was slumber; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands. 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

Rhetorical, if you will, but in its kind how effective ! 
And Byron usually maintains the style of the particular 
kind in which he has chosen to write, with remarkable 
dexterity. We must indeed be careful to note the 
effect he is seeking and not expect something different. 
" Childe Harold " is not an epic and does not aim at 
epic effects. Superficially regarded it might be classed 
as descriptive poetry. But how different the effect 
from that of most descriptive poetry that we know! 
And the reason is this, that its description is animated 
at all points with human emotion, until the center of 



xl • IN TROD UCTION 

interest is in the poet and only secondarily in the 
object described. In this sense the poem is more 
lyrical than descriptive. Similar cautions, mutatis 
mutandis, may be suggested for the other poems. 

Byron's style is effective because it renders so com- 
pletely to us Byron himself. Vital feeling, the impulse, 
in spite of attendant despairs, to rejoice, as Wordsworth 
says the poet does, ' ' more than other men in the spirit 
of life that is in him," this is the underlying impulse 
of Byron's poetry. It throbs with life; strong, defiant, 
desperate, mocking, resistant life; but still with life. 
Now mark how Byron, inspired by this feeling, takes 
the heroic couplet of the classicists, the instrument of 
impersonal and subdued poetic propriety, and makes 
it express, in the " Corsair" for example, all the im- 
petuous rush, the turbulence, and the personal force 
of his nature : 

" There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed, combined, 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse — 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries, ' I warn'd thee ! ' when the deed is o'er. 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
May writhe — rebel — the v/eak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought ; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews, 
All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; 



iNTROD UCTiON xll 

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and woi'ds, perhaps remember'd not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime; 
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 
That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
^ To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break." 

^ Certain mannerisms and tricks of style in Byron 
everybody will notice. There is his excessive use of 
the dash indicating ellipsis and the appositional phrase. 
There is the omission of connectives. There is the 
frequent use of such words as ' ' away, away ! " or 
*' on, on." Verbs and other words indicating motion 
swarm in certain poems, the " Giaour" and " Mazep- 
pa" for example. The painting of emotion and of 
moods, the narration of action, the setting in of a 
background by description, — these are almost the only 
elements in Byron's verse-romances. There is no 
redundancy. With admirable effect he plunges i7i 
medias res. In transitions he is usually skilful, though 
abrupt. An excellent example are the opening stanzas 
of Canto III of " Childe Harold." And although 
sometimes cacophonous and logically incoherent, 
there is generally sufficient consistency in the larger 
units of composition, and the poet seldom misses the 
emotional effect at which he aims. 

His style, however, is manifold. There is the style 
of his early satires, couplets in imitation of Pope. 
There is the style of " Childe Harold," stately, im- 



xlii INTRODUCTION 

petuous, resonant, and often nobly rhetorical. There 
is the style of the verse-romances, mostly written in 
free octosyllabic verse or pentameter couplets, more 
mannered than his other compositions, but maturing 
to admirable finish in parts of ' ' Mazeppa, " " The 
Prisoner of Chillon, " and "The Island." There is 
the style of his lyrics, often singularly impressive, but 
imperfect and unfinished. There is his dramatic and 
blank- verse style, an instrument forced to effective 
utterance in ' ' Manfred ' ' and ' ' Cain, ' ' but imperfectly 
commanded and in itself unpleasing. And finally there 
is the style of " Beppo " and " Don Juan," a style of 
astonishing ease, audacity, variety, and power, some- 
thing supreme in its kind in the whole range of litera- 
ture, of which Byron remains the undisputed master. 

Byron excels in the broadly picturesque, and his 
imagery is concrete and \ivid, although elemental and 
dynamic rather than clear-cut, cameo-like, or elab- 
orated. Not the picture so much as the emotional 
connotation of the picture is what he aims for. There 
is little of the idyllic. His imagery is the imagery of 
pathos and passion and power rather than of vision. 
All his characteristic similes are energetic and sugges- 
tive of movement and force. Nature in her extremest 
manifestations, nature in her elements, supplies most 
of his comparisons. So he cries In " Childe Harold " : 

• ' Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me ; — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak." 



INTRODUCTION xHil 

This may stand for us as the emblem of Byron's 
poetic ideal. The "lightning of the mind" is his. 
Here and there, it is true, images of pure beauty are 
exhibited. 

'< She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies." 

Or again : 

" As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood." 

Or similarly, in ' ' Mazeppa " : 

" She had the Asiatic eye, ... 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight." 

Or Haidee's beauty, in " Don Juan," is compared 
to the break of day over the mountain-tops. But 
even in these examples it is always the beauty of ele- 
mental nature that is brought into the comparison. 
The more characteristic images are as where the poet 
proclaims that his hero's mind is as a seaweed torn 
from the rock and swept by the surge ^ ; or rushing 
onward as the wind which bears the cloud before it^; 
or drooping as the wild-born falcon with dipt wing^; 
or impatient of calm and pining like a flame unfed, or 
a sword rusting ingloriously * ; or dreading the leafless 
desert of the mind, or to drop by dull decay on life- 

» '' Childe Harold," III, 2. 3 j^. Ill, 15. 

2 Id. Ill, 3. 4 Id. Ill, 44. 



xliv 2NTR0D UCTIOKt 

less waves ^; or growing through adversity and enduring 
storms like the fir on the barren Alpine rocks. ^ The 
guilty mind is like the scorpion girt by fire seeking 
death from its own sting 2; the shock of battle is com- 
pared to the meeting of opposing tide and torrent^; 
deeds appear fierce as the gloomy vulture's^; it is as if 
a serpent were wreathed around the heart and stung it 
to strife^; the hero's eye flashes like the white torrent, 
or the lightning bursting from the black cloud ^; the 
hero battling alone is like a glutted tiger mangling in 
his lair^; warriors assaulting the ramparts are like a 
pack of wolves tossed by a buffalo ^; the opposing force 
gives way and falls like a cliff undermined by the 
tides"; wrath is like the rattlesnake's in act to strike^; 
scorn affects one as the wind the rock, another as the 
whirlwind on the waters^; the hero's locks rise like 
startled vipers o'er his brow^'^; he faces his enemies 
dark as a sullen cloud before the sun^^; a woman's 
revenge is as the tiger's spring, deadly, and quick, and 
crushing. ^2 As we review these images we touch, if we 
do not analyze, the psychology of Byron's tempera- 
ment; and the partial similarity of his imagination to 
that of some of the Elizabethans, like Marlowe and 
Webster, becomes once more apparent. 

Rhetorical dexterity marks Byron's handling of 
simile and metaphor; as when in the following lines 



1 i 


' The Giaour." 


7 Id. xxiv. 


2 < 


'Childe Harold," IV, 20. 


8 " Mazeppa," xiii. 


3 < 


' The Giaour." 


9 " Marino Faliero," V, 


4 < 


' Bride of Abydos," xii. 


10 ''The Island," iv. 


5 . 


' The Corsair," iv. 


^Ud. 


6 1 


•' The Siege of Corinth," xxiii. 


^■- "Don Juan/' II, 199. 



INTROD UCTION' xlv 

he welds together a series of similes into a picturesque 
emotional climax: 

"The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on." ^ 

Or in these lines: 

"Tell him what thou dost behold : 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief." 

So, as an example of terse congruity, the familiar 
lines: 

"Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Tike the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown." 

For effects of humor and satire, naturally, Byron 
uses imagery in quite a different manner. Here the 
rhetorical effect usually desired is that of anti-climax. 
This is especially seen in "" Don Juan." 

"And she bent over him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 

1 "Childe Harold," III, 32. Cf. the following stanza. 



xlvi INTRODUCTION 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 

Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; 
In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow." ^ 

As in most of his similes drawn from nature there is 
present some element of human association or emotion, 
as in 

" A shriveir d scroll, a scattered leaf." 

so in his descriptions of nature Byron habitually and 
on principle 2 compares natural things with human. 
Thus, in his description of the Lake of Nemi,^ he 
writes : 

'' Calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 

A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake." 



IX 

In conclusion we are led to ask, What are the per- 
manent elements in Byron's work ? That his was a 
mind of surpassing genius few will deny. Whether he 
was a poet, or in what sense and degree he was a poet, 
is a question which has been mooted, and which in 
time may come to be debated as the question whether 
Pope was a poet has been debated. There is this 
difference in the two questions, however, that those 
who doubt Pope's position are those who insist on the 
test of inspiration over form, while with Byron the case 

1 Similarly, cf. "Don Juan," XIII, 37; XVI, 9, 10. 
^ See his "Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope." 
3 "Childe Harold," IV, 173. 



IN TROD UCTION xlvif 

is precisely the contrary. Mr. Swinburne, for exam- 
ple, is for judging Byron to be a great prose writer in 
his letters, but in poetry infinitely inferior to Shelley 
and Coleridge. "Byron," he says, "was supreme in 
his turn — a king by truly divine right; but in a 
province outside the proper domain of absolute 
poetry." The proper domain of absolute poetry of 
course is very much a matter of definition and opinion, 
and there is little use disputing about definitions. In 
some debatable borderland of creative literature just 
outside the proper domain of absolute poetry, then, 
we may safely say that Byron reigns as one of the 
dii major es of the world's literature. 

"It is on the quality of the matter it informs or 
controls," Walter Pater writes, "its compass, its 
variety, its alliance to great ends, or the depth of the 
note of revolt, or the largeness of hope in it, that the 
greatness of literary art depends." To the superficial 
eye Byron's verse seems narrow in compass and variety; 
it seems narrow by reason of its personal note and 
constant egotism. The depth of the note of revolt in 
it is unmistakable, as well as the greatness of the ends 
with which it is concerned. Its egotism, moreover, is 
something more than a personal egotism. Byron is a 
protagonist of humanity. " The feeling for human 
suffering," to use the phrase applied to him by 
Brandes, dominates his mind. It appears even in 
the early poems, but more intensely in "Chillon, " 
* ' Mazeppa, " " IVIanfred, ' ' the later ' ' Childe Harold, ' ' 
and " Don Juan." A holy indignation is upon him. 
He represents his age, and is in revolt against all that 
is hollow and false and narrowing in life and thought, 



xlviii INTRODUCTION 

then and forever. He is for liberating our spirits and 
enfranchising us from the bonds of custom and cant 
and conventionality. When he is inspired, — and 
preferably he wrote, as he phrased it, only when the 
esiro was upon him, — a current of elemental power 
sweeps through him. We forget all that is merely 
personal and temporal in him, his scepticism and 
cynicism and sense of satiety, and all that was unami- 
able in his character and temper, and feel only the 
lyrical resonance and sweep of his verse, the humani- 
tarian aim and scope of his poetic passion, the vastness 
and indomitable energy of his imagination, and the 
sincerity of his outcry against fate and those blind 
forces of the world which repress and limit and baffle 
the aspirations of the soul towards a more perfect and 
absolute ideal. Byron and Goethe, as Mazzini says, 
are the two great representatives of their age. They 
are the two last great exponents of that spirit of 
individuality which dominates and inspires the long 
period of the Renaissance, and which slowly expires in 
the throes of modern Revolution. 

Byron is not a great artist. He has not the artistic 
temperament and the sense for beauty of Keats or 
Tennyson or Rossetti. Nor has he the gift for poetical 
form, and phrasing of Shelley and ColeridgC: In the 
mere art of poetry he stands below these men; and this 
defect will prevent his being placed as a poet after 
Shakspere and Milton. But it is easy to exaggerate 
Byron's defects of form and of art. The positive 
merits of his poetical method have never been suffi- 
ciently recognized, partly perhaps because his method 
is so different from that of other poets of our age. 



IN TK ODUC TIO IV X i 1 X 

The compensating qualities of his style are simple and 
generally obvious, and they are not subtle. But his 
style admirably suits his genius, and at its best meets, 
with candid and impartial readers, his own test of 
effectiveness. There is, moreover, an underlying sin- 
cerity in his art. " If," writes Professor Courthope, 
" . . . we search for the special quality that gives his 
work its enduring interest and its strange power over 
the imagination, I think it will be found to be reality; 
reality in description, reality in feeling, reality in 
style." ^ It requires in our day a determined effort of 
detachment and readjustment to appreciate the pro- 
found genius and the essential sincerity of Byron. He 
did not know himself; it is only with difficulty that 
we to-day can arrive at even a partial knowledge of 
him. Mediocrity has misinterpreted him, and has 
done its worst to obscure his genius. It has been in 
vain, for his works live after him; and through them, 
however obscured, that genius shines. Apart from all 
questions of the technicalities of ethics and of art two 
potent personalities, two pre-eminent poets, loom forth 
in the English literature of the first half of the nine- 
teenth century, Byron and Wordsworth, different in 
type, different in method, but both leaders in the 

' Compare Ruskin's interesting account (in his " Prasterita," 
N. Y., 1886, I, 258 f.) of his early indebtedness to Byron : ''Two 
things I consciously recognized, that his truth of observation was 
the most exact, and his chosen expression the most concentrated, 
that I had yet found in literature. . . . But here at last I had 
found a man who spoke only what he had seen and known ; and 
spoke without exaggeration, without mystery, without enmity, 
and without mercy. ' That is so ;— make what you will of it ! ' " 



1 INTROD UCTION 

march of humanity. The one is the great modem 
English poet of the will, the proclaimer of emancipa- 
tion to man. His method stands in the exaltation of 
freedom and of personal force. The other is the poet 
of character, and the advocate of law. The wisdom 
of passivity, and reconciliation through ultimate sub- 
mission are his words of order. Taken together they 
fully represent their age, and they have both left abid- 
ing monuments of immortal verse behind them. 



CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE OF 
THE LIFE OF BYRON 

Byron's career naturally falls into four Periods (Nichol), as 
indicated below. Progressive growth, deepening of power, and 
increasing command of style, is traceable throughout. 

Ancestry ancient, tracing to Norman and Viking founders. 
Ennobled in 1643. Distinguished members two generations 
before Byron. His father a libertine and spendthrift. His 
mother of old Scotch stock, violent, ill-bred, hysterical. Passion, 
eccentricity, and self-will from both branches. Newstead Abbey 
family seat of Byrons since Henry VIII. 



1788-1809. First Period : Early Years and Youthful 
Poems. 

1788, Jan. 22. Born in London. Congenital lameness. 

1790. Moved to Aberdeen. Childhood under care of kindly nurse, 
Mary Gray. Early imbibes Scotch Calvinistic doctrines 
(traces of which remain in all his later thought) and 
knowledge of the Bible. 

1792. To day-school in Aberdeen. Later to Rev. Mr. Ross, and 
then to Mr. Paterson. Begins Latin. Mediocre student, 
but passion for reading history and romance. 

1794. Becomes heir- apparent to the Barony. 

1795-6. Early childish passion for a cousin, Mary Duff. 

1796. Visit to Scotch Highlands. Early love of mountains. 

1798. Inherits the title and estates. Journey to Newstead. Settles 
— in Nottingham. Lord Carlisle, an uncle, his guardian. 

1799. School at Dulwich under Dr. Glennie. Voracious general 

reading. 

1800. Boyish passion for another cousin, Margaret Parker 

("Thyrza" ?) 



lii CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE 

1801-1805. At Harrow school under Dr. Jos. Drury. Latin; 
some Greek; reading knowledge of French; mere smat- 
tering of German. (Learns Italian thoroughly in later 
life.) Wide reading. Strong memory. 

1803-4. Disappointed in love for Mary Chaworth (cf. ''The 
Dream"). 

1805-1808. At Cambridge, Trinity College. Little attention to 
studies. M.A. i8o8. College friends, — esp. Hobhouse, 
Byron's stanch and life-long fi-iend. ' 

1806. Juvenile poems (issue destroyed). — J 8 07, Jati. "Juvenilia' 

revised (private). 

1807, March. "Hours of Idleness " ("Juvenilia," public). 

1808. Life in London. Dissipation. — March. Attack on poems 

by "Edinburgh Review." 

1809, Jan. 22. Comes of age. Takes seat in House of Lords. — 

March. "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Fare- 
well revels with friends at Newstead before going abroad. 

1809-1812. Second Period : First Sojourn Abroad. First 
Cantos of "Childe Harold." 

1809, June. Sails for Portugal. — Jufy- At Lisbon, trip through 

Spain, to Greece, etc. (See Itinerary, in Notes to 
"Childe Harold," below.) 

1810, March. Completes second canto of "Childe Harold." 

Pressure from creditors at home, and consequently, 

1811, July, returns to England. — August. Death of his mother. 

Beginning of friendship with Tom Moore. 

1812, February. "Childe Harold " I-II published. Its immense 

success. 
1812-1813. Several speeches in House of Lords on Liberal side. 

1812-1816. Third Period: Life in London; Early Verse- 
romances. 

1812-1814. Lion of the day in London. Literary society (Sheri- 
dan, Rogers, Moore, Campbell, Monk Lewis, Mme. de 
Stael, etc. Corresponds with Scott, whom he meets in 
18 15.) Affair with Lady Caroline Lamb. 

1813-1815. "The Giaour," "Bride of Abydos," "Corsair," 
"Lara," "Hebrew Melodies," "Siege of Corinth," 
"Parisina," etc. 



OF THE LIFE OF BYRON Hil 

1814, Engagement to Miss Milbanke. 

1815, January 2. Marriage, — December. Birth of daughter, 

Augusta Ada. 

1816, January. Lady Byron leaves Byron. Public scandal. 

Formal separation. 
1816, April. Byron leaves England for good, "hunted out of the ^2^-/5^ 
/^Vj country, bankrupt in purse and heart." ,i 

1816-1824. Fourth Period : Life Abroad ; Production of 
THE Great Works. 

1816. Through Belgium and along the Rhine to Switzerland (see 

Itinerary). PViendship w^ith Shelley. Influence on his 
work. Amour with Clare Clairmont (Godwin's daughter). 
Various excursions. — June. "Prisoner of Chillon." 
Third canto of "Childe Harold" written. — J'^ify- 
"Manfred" \)t.<gMT\.. — Octobe7\ To Italy. Noveinber. 
Settles in Venice (three years). Period of dissipation. 

1817, January. Birth of Allegra (in England). Dies in Italy, 

1822. 

1817. Fever. Trip to Rome. — Septe?nber. Fourth canto of 

" Childe Harold " completed. _^ 

1818. "Manfred." Septcinbcr. Canto I of " Don Juan " written. 

"Beppo." Visit from Shelley (cf. Shelley's "Julian and 
Maddalo"). 

1819. "Mezeppa." — October. Visit from Moore. Further cantos 

of ' ' Don Juan. " ' ' Prophecy of Dante. " Relations with 
Countess Guiccioli begin. 

1820. At Ravenna. " Marino Faliero." Sympathy with revolu- 

tionary movement of the Carbonari to free Italy. — August. 
Visit from Shelley. 

1821. August. Expelled from Ravenna. " Two Foscari," " Sar- 

danapalus," "Cain," " Vision of Judgment." — November. 
In Pisa. 

1822. Visit from Trelawny (see his "Recollections.") Arrival of 

Leigh Hunt and family. "The Liberal."— y^^/j/. Death 
of Shelley. — September. Removal from Pisa to Genoa. 
Friendship with the Blessingtons (cf. Lady Blessington's 
"Conversations.") "Werner," " The Deformed Trans- 
formed." Further cantos of " Don Juan." Various minor 
poems. 



liv CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE 

1823. Concluding cantos of *' Don Juan " (which, however, remains 

unfinished). Byron's sympathies and aid enlisted for 
Greeks in their struggle for independence. — Jidy- Sails 
for Greece. His politic management there. Declining 
health. 

1824, April 19. Death at Mesolonghi. Burial in Westminster 

Abbey refused. Buried at Hucknall. 
< ' Few can ever have gone wearier to the grave ; none with less 
fear. He had done enough to earn his rest. Forgetful now and 
set free forever from all faults and foes, he passed through the 
doorway of no ignoble death out of reach of time, out of sight of 
love, out of hearing of hatred, beyond the blame of England and 
the praise of Greece. In the full strength of spirit and of body 
his destiny overtook him, and made an end of all his labors. He 
had seen and borne and achieved more than most men on record. 
' He was a great man, good at many things, and now he has 
attained this also, to be at rest.' " (A. C. Swinburne, "Essays 
and Studies," 258.") 




BIBLIOGRAPHY 

There are numberless editions of Byron. What 

promises to be a definitive edition and the ,. . 
^ , . . . , Editions 

most authoritative is the one now in process 

of pubUcation, edited, the Poetry by E. H. Cole- 
ridge (London, Murray, 1898 f.) and the Letters and 
Journals by R. E. Prothero. The latter is of first- 
rate importance for Byron's Life. Previous to this, 
Moore's edition of the Letters and Journals with 
the Life (1830, and frequent reprints) has 
been the standard. Moore's *' Life, " how- 
ever, has been often attacked for bias and misrep- 
resentation, and must be read critically. Other 
modern lives are those by Karl Elze (in English 
translation 1872), which judges Byron's character 
harshly and with perfect self-assurance; a personal, 
gossipy, but honest book, exhibiting no great critical 
penetration. J. C. Jeaffreson's "The Real Lord 
Byron" is full of personal detail and background, and 
is apparently the result of considerable research; it, 
however, employs the novelist's method, and from a 
suggestion of fact imagines motives and mental pro- 
cesses with the utmost freedom ; on the whole a gossip- 
monger, but readable, and to be consulted by the 
critical student; contains hardly any literary criticism. 
Shorter lives, combined with criticism, are those by 

Iv 



IvI BIBLIOGKAPHY 

John Nichol ("English Men of Letters" series), — a 
fair view of Byron, and perhaps the best short memoir 
for general reading, — and by Roden Noel (" Great 
Writers" series), accompanied with a very serviceable 
Bibliography by J. P. Anderson. Important, also, is 
the Life of Byron, by Leslie Stephen, in the Dictionary 
of National Biography. Volume I of the (incomplete) 
edition of Byron's Works by W. E. Henley contains 
the Letters from 1804 to 1813, and is valuable for 
the editor's brilliant and interesting Notes. Other 
memoirs, earlier and partial, are those by John Gait, 
4830, — inept and self-satisfied, but with some valuable 
details; by Geo. Clinton, — a trashy piece of bookmak- 
ing, g7-oh in tone (no one has been more unfortunate 
in his biographers than Byron!); by R. C. Dallas, 
1824, — personal recollections, but contains little of 
value; Medwin's "Conversations of Byron," 1824, — 
highly interesting, but declared untrustworthy by con- 
temporary critics; the Countess of Blessington's " Con- 
versations of Byron," 1834, — less interesting and 
skilful than Medwin's and fuller of the author, but 
important; Trelawny's " Records of Shelley, Byron, 
and the Author," 1878, — intensely interesting and 
indispensable; the author, however, understood Shelley 
better than Byron; Leigh Hunt's " Byron and som.e 
of his Contemporaries," 1828 (2d ed.), — prejudiced, 
but apparently honest; the Countess Guiccioli's 
"Recollections of Lord Byron," English translation 
1869, — a very foolish book, and surprisingly empty of 
original matter; many other contemporary memoirs 
are of value, as, for example. Lady Morgan's, and the 
Memoir of the Rev. Francis Hodgson by his son. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY Ivii 

1878. Castelar's Life of Byron is mainly a rhapsody 
and of little worth. 

For periodical literature on Byron, see Poole's 
Index and continuations. 

For criticism of Byron, by far the most just, 

adequate, and authoritative estimate is to be ^ .,. . 

1 • T>/r 1 * ,1' , T ,• 1 1 Criticism 

found m Matthew Arnold s essay (published 

as introduction to his ' ' Selections from Byron ' ' ; also 
in his "Essays in Criticism," 2d series); see also 
Matthew Arnold's "Memorial Verses," 11. 6-14. 
Excellent also is the shorter study by J. A. Symonds, 
prefixed to the selections from Byron in Ward's 
"English Poets," Vol. IV.. Perhaps third in value 
should be named the admirable summary of Byron's 
present position by Paul E. More in "The Atlantic 
Monthly " for December, 1898. The several criticisms 
upon Byron by A. C. Swinburne are curiously contra- 
dictory and unequal. They contain some of the best 
things that have been written about Byron, with some 
of the worst. The critic attacks Arnold's judgment 
and violently denies Byron all purely poetic power. 
See his "Essays and Studies," 214-216, 238-258, 
304-307; and his " Miscellanies," 63-156. The 
poet's historical position is judiciously weighed in John 
Morley's essay on Byron (in his "Miscellanies," I, 
203-251). Slighter, but of charming quality, are the 
essay on Byron in W. E. Henley's "Views and 
Reviews," 56-62, and (in verse) in Andrew Lang's 
' ' Letters to Dead Authors. ' ' 

Macaulay's essay, brilliant but borne, must still be 
read; as also should the utterances on Byron of dis- 
tinguished critics and poets of an earlier day, like 



Ivlii BIBLIOGRAPHY 

William Hazlitt, Jeffrey, Goethe, Mazzini (eloquent 
yet admirable : see his Essays, in the Camelot Series, 
London, 1887, pp. 83-108), Scott, Shelley, Ste.-Beuve, 
Tennyson (** Memoirs "), Ruskin (" Praeterita "), 
Lamartine, Washington Irving, and others. A valu- 
able contemporary Continental criticism of Byron is 
to be found in G. Brandes, " Der Naturalismus in 
England" (Leipzig, 1894), chs. 16-21 — especially 
excellent for the appreciations of " Cain " and " Don 
Juan." The sections on Byron in the standard his- 
tories of English Literature should also be consulted. 
See especially Taine, Gosse (" Modern English Litera- 
ture"), Saintsbury (" History of Nineteenth-Century 
Literature " ; also a " Short History of English Litera- 
ture "), C. H. Herford (" The Age of Wordsworth "), 
Minto (" Literature of the Georgian Era," ch. xvii), 
and Courthope (" Liberal Movement in English Litera- 
ture," 131-144). 

Numerous special studies on detached aspects or 
separate works of Byron exist, some of which are 
mentioned in the Notes to this volume. See also the 
pages of the periodicals, " Englische Studien " and 
' ' Anglia. ' ' Worthy of special mention are Prof. 
Kolbing's unfinished edition of Byron with elaborate 
notes; F. H. O. Weddigen, " Lord Byron's Einfluss 
auf die europaischen Litteraturen der Neuzeit," Han- 
nover, 1884; J. O. E. Donner, "Byron's Welt- 
Anschauung, " 1897; O. Schmidt, " Rousseau und 
Byron, " Leipzig, 1890. See Varnhagen's " "^rerzeich- 
nis, " etc., 1893, pp. 202-3. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

A ROMAUNT 

TO lANTHE 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd, 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream 'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
speak ? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art. 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart. 
Love's image upon earth without his wing. 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening. 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine : 



2 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours de- 
creed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee loveliest, as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less 
require ? 



I 



CANTO THE FIRST 
1812 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill ; 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 



Wliilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree, 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a. name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

3 



4 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly, 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fullness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. 



V. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, 
And that lov'd one, alas, could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 



VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e ; 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea: 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe. 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall. 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den, 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 



VIII. 

Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow ; 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 



IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him^not hislemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun: 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun: 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 



XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks and snowy hands. 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. 



XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam ; 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening ; 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farev/ell in the dim twilight, 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night. 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native land — Good night ! 

A few short hours, and he will rise, ... 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are.-gathering on the wall, . 

My 4og howls at the gate. 



And now I'm in the world alone, 
Upon the wide, wide sea ; 

But why should I for others groan, 
When none will sigh for me I - . 



8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Perchance my dog will whine in vain. 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native land — Good night ! 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay, 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried make every bosom gay : 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way. 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay : 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap. 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 

XV. 

Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land: 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride. 
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 



XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town. 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be. 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
*Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily ; 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 



XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes- 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates. 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates. 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? 



lO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 



XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest ye at " Our Lady's House of Woe" ; 
Where frugal monks their little relics show. 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish 'd been ; and lo, 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 



XXI. . 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, • 
Mark many rude-carv'd crosses near the path.;/ . • .." 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Througihaut. this, purple land, where law secures, not Uie.1 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE II 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair : 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there, 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : 
There thou, too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done. 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 



XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a free-born race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair. 
The toilsome way, and long, Jong league to trace, 
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air. 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows- 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend ; 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul. 



XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Tliough rival kingdoms press its v^erdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the dilTerence know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 



XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor drest ; 
Here ceas'd the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 3 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renovvn'd, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. 
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band 
That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. 



xxxvi. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders, and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue. 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee 
wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries. 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar ! 
In every peal she calls — " Awake, arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song v/as heard on Andalusia's shore ? 



14 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe : 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 



XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 



XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share : 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1$ 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies : 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 



XLII. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sv/ay > 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone 



XLIII. 

O Albuera, glorious field of grief ! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed } 
Peace to the perish'd ! ma}^ the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng. 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. 



1 6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 



XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 



XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds ; 
Nor hear War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls. 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IJ 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic : with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet : 
Ah, monarchs I could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet. 



XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer. 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No ! as he speeds he chants " Viva el Rey ! " 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy. 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. 



XLIX. 

On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest. 
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
Still does he mark it v/ith triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder clifTs, which oft were won and lost. 



1 8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of lo)'alty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke. 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. 



LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 



LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little mom.ent deigneth to delay ; 
Soon V.' ill his legions sweep through these their way ; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd. 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 9 

LIII. 

And must they fall — the young, the proud, the brave — 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of 
steel ? 

LIV, 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlade hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd. an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 
tread. 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd hen black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glorv's fearful chase. . 



20 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host ; 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's fiush'd hope is lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? 



LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string. 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore ! 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 21 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave. 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was 

young, 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir ; 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire. 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 



22 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine. 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary ; 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare ; 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 



LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die. 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 



LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the.din of tongues — on gallant steeds, . 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois'd lance. 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance ; 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 23 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array 'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is travers'd o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed ; 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, no more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
Alas ! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes around the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And wildly staring, spurnS; with sounding foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd — away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear ; 
Now is thy time to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear ; 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes : 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellow ings speak 
his woes. 



24 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXVII. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail. 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears. 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray ; 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand ; 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand ! 



CANTO THE SECOND 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas. 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war, and wasting fire, 
And years that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts be- 
stow. 

II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that 

were : 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn ; 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 
*Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's ; and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, v/hose hope is built on 
reeds. 

25 



26 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given. 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 



Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around : 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell ? 
Why, ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 



VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall. 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul ; 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole. 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control ; 
• Can all saint, sage or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit } 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 27 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun } 
Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 



VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A lard of souls beyond that sable shore. 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors light ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right ! 



XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 



28 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are manned on high : 
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides 
Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 



XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
Vrom law, however stern, which tends their strength to 
nerve. 



XX. 

Blow ! swiftly blow, thou ked-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze, 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
Vhe flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 2g 

XXI. 

The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure featly move. 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 



XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays. 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; 
But Mauritania's giant shadows frown. 
From mountain-clifT to coast descending sombre down. 



XXIII. 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? 



30 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward 3'ear. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores un- 
roll'd. 

XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less. 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude/ 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 3 1 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 

. Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene. 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene. 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot 

Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 



XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain path to tread. 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still ; 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild. 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night .she ever smiled. 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath. 
And sought her more and more, and loved her bes-: 
wrath. 



32 SELECTIONS EROM BYRON 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose ; 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise; 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot. 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could slie not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre. 
That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. 



XL. 

*Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar : 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
wight. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 33 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak. 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear. 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu : 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to viev/ : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few : 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new^ ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
heat. 



34 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised. 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear : 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 



XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose, 
Now, like the hands that reared them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain 'd for such to win and lose ? 



XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales : 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; lov'd Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most. 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 35 

XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake. 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take, 
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! from thy shady brow, 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high ; 
Here dwells the caloyer ; nor rude is he. 
Nor niggard of his cheer : the passer-by 
Is welcome still; nor heedless will he iiee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 



36 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 



LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 
Chimsera's alps extend from left to right : 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 
Nodding above ; behold black Acheron ! 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
none. 



LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills ; here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 2>7 

hill. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the 
stroke ? 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trance. 



LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by. 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose v/alls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening 
glen. 



38 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Hiram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court ; 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests and santons wait 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort. 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 



LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store. 
Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door, 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away ; 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of 
day. 



LVIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee. 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see: 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon : 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 39 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play are found : 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is great ! " 



LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain, 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Nov/ all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. 
But from the chambers came the mingling din. 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 



LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 



40 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, ■j 

Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, «i' 

And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
AH reclined, a man of war and woes : 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws, 
Along that aged venerable face. 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 

LXIII. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth : 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he signs in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things m.ost new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem, luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both de- 
stroys. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 4 1 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain land, 
Combined marauders halfway barred egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd. 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 



LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove. 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove. 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast. 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene :— 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence glean. 



LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour v/as past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
clan. 



42 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it Avas no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee : 
And as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd. 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half : 
screamed : 

I. 
Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote ! 

2. 

Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 

3- 
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ?' 

4. 
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the cliase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

5- 
Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves. 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 43 

6. 
I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win v/hat the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7- 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth ; 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe : 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 

9- 
I talk not of mercy I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who^vould serve the Vizier ; 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

lo. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-hair'd Giaours view his horsetail with 

with dread ; 
When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

II. 
Selictar ! unsheath then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors or view us no more ! 



44 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more, though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
And long accustomed bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 



LXXIV. 

Spirit of Freedom, when on Phyle's brow 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Could'st thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, un- 
mann'd. 



LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their father's heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
Or tear their name defiled from Slaver>''s mournful page. 



I 



I 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 45 

LXXVI, 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe : 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 



LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest : 
And the Serai's impenetrable tov/er 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will Freedom saek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 



LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin. 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin. 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take the pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 



46 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
O Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain I) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign ; 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song. 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore ; 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar. 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone ; 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave. 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. * 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land. 
No thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return 'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 47 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliiT, and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas ! " 



LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honey'd wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 



48 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold. 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; — 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame ; 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ; 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 



xc. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below. 
Death in the front. Destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground. 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound. 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
around. 



CHILD E HA jR OLD'S PILGRIMAGE 49 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore : 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 



xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me : 
Who did for me what none beside have done. 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being.'* thou h'lst ceased to be ! 
Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer home. 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam ! 



xcvi. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past. 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 



50 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ? 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the v/orst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each lov'd one blotted from life's page. 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow. 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since Time hath reft v/hate'er my soul enjoy 'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

1816. 

" Afin que cette application vous format a penser k autre chose; il n'y a 
en v^rite de remade que ceiui-li et le temps." — Lettre du Roi de Prusse 
k D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled. 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine 
eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale. 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath pre- 
vail. 

51 



52 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

III. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life — where not a flower appears. 



IV. 

Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string. 
And both may jar: it may be, tliat in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling. 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 



He, who grown aged in this world of woe. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife- 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 53 

VI. 

'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought : with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible, but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. 



VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed : though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 



VIII. 

Something too much of this ; — but now 'tis past, 
A_nd the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel. 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cud but soarkles near the brim. 



54 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

IX. 

His had been quaff 'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deemed its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 



X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 



XI. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb } 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 55 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 



XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 



XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars. 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight. 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 



56 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home ; 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 



XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain. 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though 'twere wild — as on the plunder'd wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 



XVII. 

Stop ! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow i 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,' 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory? 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE S7 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place " here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain : 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 



XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit. 
And foam in fetters, — but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make On^ submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten 'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye 
praise ! 



XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 



58 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deeo sound strikes like a rising knell! 



XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. — 
But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is— it is— the cannon's opening roar ! 



XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear, 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 59 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 



XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! They come ! 
they come!" 



XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's Gathering " rose, 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ; 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 



6o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which nov/ beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine : 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE 6 1 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring- 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 



XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 



XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 



62 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise ; and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 



xxxiv. 

There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name 
threescore ? 



XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man ; 
They are enough : and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say, 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 63 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit, antithetically mixt, 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in dl things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 



XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself ; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 



XXXVIII. 

Oh. more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 



64 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXlX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 



XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 



XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 

throne, 
Then- admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 65 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion ! Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable I what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule : 



XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past. 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 



^ SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
And far befieat/i the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 



XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhiije ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells„ 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 



XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd ; 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 6/ 

XLVIII. 

Beneath these battlements, within those walls. 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws conquerors should have 
But History's purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as 
brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



L. 

But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure forever, 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to rrie. 
Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe 
be. 



68 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks : 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray, 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 



LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensible to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face. 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 



LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt. 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 69 

LIV. 

And he had learn'd to love — I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy. 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 



LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said. 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour ! 



I. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
And fields which promise corn and wine. 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me ! 



yo SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay. 
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 



3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 



4. 
The river nobly foams and flows, — 
The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To Nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGK1*MAGE 
LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's, — but kt not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 



LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those. 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiten'ess bf his soul, arid thus meri o'er liim wept. 



LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light ; 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But Peace destroy 'd what War could never blight. 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain.— .. 
On v/hich the iron shower for years had pour'd .iu.yain. 



72 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



LIX. 



Adieu, to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vulture cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay. 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 



LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine; 
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise : 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft ; — the glories of old days. 



LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen. 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between. 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art : and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them 
fall. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 73 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 
below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. 
There is a spot should not be passed in vain. — 
xVIorat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where m_an 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. 
Nor blush for those \v\\o conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his torn bless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument; — the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek"d each wandering 
ghost. 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannati's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-etitaird Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 



74 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with ihe wild bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands, 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 



LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. 
And held witUiu their ura one mind, one heart, one dust. 



LXVJI. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe. 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 75 

LXVIII. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
Tiie mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue ; 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a lit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 



LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 



LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears. 
And colour things to come with hues of Night: 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness ; on the sea 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite. 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 



76 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 



LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me. 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture; I can see 
Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Ciass'd among creatures, when the soul can flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 



LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past. 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring. 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 7/ 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form. 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 



LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of n.y soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn *d below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for awhile — a passing guest. 
Where he became a being — whose desire 
Was to be glorious : 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. 



78 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue 
Of words like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 



Lxxviir. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal Beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 



LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet: 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
"Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
From hers who but with friendship his would meet 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest. 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 79 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was frenzied, — wherefore, who may know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
But he was frenzied by disease or woe 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reas ning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came. 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. 
Those oracles which set the world in flame. 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France, which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore. 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown 
fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill'd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 



8o :^ELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endur'd ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allur'd 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they. 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? 



LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE '^l 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 



LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 



LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven! 
If in your bright leaves w^e would read the fate 
Of men and empires, —'tis to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a 
star. 



82 SELECTIONS FROM BYROJSr 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :— 
jW\ heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



xc. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth which through our being then doth melt, 
And purifies from self : it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 



XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and unv/all'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

XCII. 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 



XCIII. 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 



XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
■Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed ; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters— war within themselves to wage ; 



84 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings — as if he did understand 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 



xcvi. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of \'our departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 



XCVII. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 



I 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIATAGE 85 

XCVIII. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day: we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

xcix. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens ! birthplace of deep Love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, v/ho sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then 
mocks. 



c. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breat.h hath blown. 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
passes the strength oi' storm :j in their most desolate hour. 



86 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CI. 

All things are here of ///;// / from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood. 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 



CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 



cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore. 
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity -I •■ - 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 87 

CIV. 

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
PeopHng it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which Passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone. 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 

cv. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 

Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 

Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 

A path to perpetuity of fame : 

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 

Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 

Thoughts v/hich should call down thunder, and the 

flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while * 

On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. 



cvi. 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined : 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 



88 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 



CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, or hope and dread allay 'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust. 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay 'd : 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 



CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed. 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 89 

ex. 

Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages : 
Thou wert the throne and graves of empires ; still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 



CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, and to steel 
The heart against itself ; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 



CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 



90 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 
could. 
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing ; I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 



cxv. 

My daughter! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter I with thy name thus much shall end- 
I see thee not, I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 



CHILD E HAJWLD'S PILGRIMAGE Ql 

CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — As it is 
I know not v/hat is there, yet something like to this. 



CXVII. 

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us,-— 'twere the same, 
I know that thou wilt love me, though to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim. 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain,— 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 



CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee— but thy fire 
Shall be more, temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains vdiere I now respire. 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me! 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 

1818. 

" Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 

Quel monte che divide, e quel che serra 

Italia, e un mare e 1' altro. che la bagna." 

Ariosto, Satira iv. 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
xVhere Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! 



II. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, *and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 

92 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 93 

III. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear ; 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 



IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied. 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



94 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this wan feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 



VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go, — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so ; 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such overw^eening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 



VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be. 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 95 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a 
seed. 



XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 



96 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt : 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo I 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 



XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass } 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a seaweed, unto whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 



XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very byword sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," which through lire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite : 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's tight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 97 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd— the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid tnist; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 



XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar ; 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 



XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine. 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations — most of all, 
Albion, to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 



98 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising Hke water-columns from the sea, 
Of Joy the sojourn, and of Wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 



XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments, which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : 
r- There are some feelings time cannot benumb, 
/Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 



XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 99 

/ ^^^- 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

u 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
Ends : — Some with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, ' 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent. 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. 



XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound. 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound 



lOO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — 
The cold— the changed — perchance the dead — anew, 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how 
few! 



XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
FalleVi states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command. 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea. 



XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility : 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate cliarm which cannot be defaced. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE lOI 

XXVII. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhastian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 



I02 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes. 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 



XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride- 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain, 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 



XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay 'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO3 

XXXIII. 



t< 



Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, whereby. 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 

p If from society we learn to live, 

\ 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 

( It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 

No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive 



XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 



XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude. 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the s6ats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good' 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante- s- brow alone had w^rn' before.' 



104 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXVI. 

TAnd Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 



XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time, while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou,formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest t© mourn 



XXXVIII. 

Thott ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty ; 
He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in wire ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO5 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows — but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine ? Though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
sun. 



XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose 
The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine. 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line. 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 



XLL 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 

The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 

Nor was the ominous element unjust. 

For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 

Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 

And the false semblance but disgraced his brow 



Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate'er it strikes ;— yon head is doubly sacred now. 



I06 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLII. 

Italia ! O Italia ! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
O God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress 



XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired. 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapons of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 



XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
^gina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO7 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 



XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 



XLVII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side 
Mother of Arts ! as once of Arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



I08 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 



XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : 



L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — forever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away !-~there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes ; 
Blood, — pulse, — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE lOy 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not tu Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or. 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish 'd Lord of War? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn ! 



LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ! but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create 
From what has been, or might be, things which grow, 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 



LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall forever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



no SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 

Though there were nothing save the past, and this 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. 



▼ "7 LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 



LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE III 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name forevermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 



LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among. 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom / 



LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust. 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps. 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and weeps. 



212 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 



LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine. 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow Sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 

V For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries ; though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 

Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 



LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoU'n to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE X13 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet / 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel : Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 



LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. 



114 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear : 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 



LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calm.ness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
tales. 



LXVIII. 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
It through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE US 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. 



LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. 
Is an eternal April to the grourid, 
Making it all one emerald ; — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 



Lxxr. 

To the broad column, which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
With many windings, through the vale ; — Look back ! 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract. 



Il6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn ; 
Resembling, mid the torture of the scene. 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 



LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine,— might be worshipp'd more 
But I have seen the soaring J ungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 



LXXIV. 

The Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, ^tna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity; 
All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, 
Not ntyuJ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE HJ 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he who will his recollections rake. 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latin echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 



LXXVL 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd. 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought. 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health : but what it then detested, still abhor. 



LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse. 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet iare thee well— upon Soracte's ridge we part. 



Il8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXVIII. 

O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The C3''press, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, — Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 



LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands. 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 



LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride r 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the Capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " Here was, of is," where all is doubly nighl*.^ ^ 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE II9 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections : now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 



LXXXII. 

Alas, the lofty city ! and alas, 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page ! But these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 



LXXXIII. 

O thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's wheel. 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 



120 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXXIV. 

Thy dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own, 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ! — he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it cost to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! But beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. 



LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 121 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Csesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die. 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 



LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
She-wolf ! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch 'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black'd with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 



LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave, — 



122 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

xc. 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with a distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beamd, 



XCL 

And came, — and saw, — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart, which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity : 
Coquettish in ambition, — still he aim'd — 
At what ? Can he avouch, or answer what he claim 'd ? 



XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate. 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd. 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode. 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 23 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
Opinion an omnipotence — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much light. 



xciv. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age. 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free. 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 



xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds, they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd. 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 



124 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XCVI. 

Can tyrants but b);- tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
'■ On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 25 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days, 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone. 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 



But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What r^ce of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
So honour'd — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot. 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 



CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue } Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs } — for such the affections 
are. 



126 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON. 

CII. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
AVith hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaflike red. 



cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised and eyed 
By Rome — But whither would Conjecture stray? 
Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! 



CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 12/ 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 



cvi. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright. 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 



cvii. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked-up vaults and frescoes steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
Pronounce who can : for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the ISIighty falls. 



128 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CVIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales; 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words! 
draw near. 



cix. 

Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for here 
There is such matter for all feelings : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span ; 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
• Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared tc 
build ? 



ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow } 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace. 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 29 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars ; they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 



CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the Conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero ! 



CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame and blood ; 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd. 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



130 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

cxiv. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans. While the tree 
Of Freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — . 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too brief. 



cxv. 

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair : 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 



cxvi. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. 
Whose green wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, — bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I3I 

cxvir. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills . 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass : 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. 



CXXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 



cxix. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 



132 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON" 

CXX. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
Aud trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

cxxi. 

O Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be : 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung 
— and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation ; — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 133 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 

cxxiv. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same — 
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 



cxxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could have loved : 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust — the dust we all have 
trod. 



134 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies whicli rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see, 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 



CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined. 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 



CXXV.III. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 135 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And 'shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 



cxxx. 

O Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
For all beside are sophists^ from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift 



cxxxi. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 



136 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CXXXII. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake I thou shalt, and 
must. 

cxxxiir. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and had it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound. 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found. 
Which if / have not taken for the sake — 
But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 



cxxxiv. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is sufifer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 137 

cxxxv. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 



cxxxvi. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 

Have I not seen what human things could do ? 

; From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few — 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
Learning to lie with silence, would seevi true. 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 

Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 



CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Tinie, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 



138 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnigiit hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear : 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

cxxxix. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot } 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 



CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him— he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 39 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire. 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire. 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
My voice sounds much — and fall tlie stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear 'd } 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
away. 



I40 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air. 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Csesar's head ; 
When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 

CXLY. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 

AVhen falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 

And when Rome falls — the World." From our own 

land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last.^ — Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuarj^ and home 
Of art and piety— Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I4I 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them 
close. 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow 'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair. 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 



CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. 
Where 07i the heart and/r^w the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
V>'hat may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain was Eve's. 



142 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 



CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sv/eeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 



CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high. 
Imperial mimic of old Eg}^pt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity. 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 143 

CLIII. 

But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey 'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 



CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook His former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in His honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 



CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. 



144 SELECTIONS FROM BYEOM 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise. 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — 
All musical in its immensities ; 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all : but piecemeal thou must break. 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. 



CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 14$ 

CLIX. 

Then pause and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 



CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 



CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
Tiie Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 



14^ SELECTIONS EROM BYRON 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood. 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god ! 



CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself iiath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust— nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas 
wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing :— if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I47 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 

That we inlierit in its mortal shroud, 

And spreads the dim and universal pall 

Through which all things grow phantoms; and the 

cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness : rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 



CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretch'd essence ; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same ; 
It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
Through storm and darknessyawnsthe rending ground — 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 



148 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 



CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort— vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 



CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
The love of millions ! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes ; 'twas but a meteor beam'd. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 49 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arni'd in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 

CLXXir. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee 
best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills' 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface v/ears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 



ISO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
" Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the wear}'- bard's delight. 



CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea : 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we foUow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd 



CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many — since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
A^nd reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear* 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 15 I 

CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted— can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 



CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
Ffom all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 



CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths wjth bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown. 



152 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXXX, 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay. 



CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free. 
And many a tyrant since : their shores obey 
The stranger, slave or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no v/rinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 153 

CLXXXIIT. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternit}^ — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 



CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my ]oy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton 'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



CLXXXV. 

My task is done — my sung hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo : it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp, and what is writ, is writ — 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 



154 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet, farewell ! 
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — ^\\\\ you, the moral of his strain. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

1816 

SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainlcss Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



My hair is gray, but not with years ; 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not v/ith toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
And mine has been the fate ot those 

155 



156 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death : 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven— who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



II. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 

In Chillon's dungeon deep and old ; 

There are seven columns, massy and gray, 

Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 

And through the crevice and the cleft 

Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 

Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 

Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 

And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done witii this new day. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 157 

Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 

And we were three — yet each alone ; 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face. 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight : 

And thus together — yet apart, 

Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 

'Twas still some solace in the dearth 

Of the pure elements of earth. 

To hearken to each other's speech, 

And each turn comforter to each, 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold ; - 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone. 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore were wont to be : 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three ; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do— and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 



158 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 

For him my soul was sorely moved. 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 

As to young eagles, being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

V. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 100 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON I S9 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 

Thus much the fathom line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthralls : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds vv^ere high 120 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 



VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his food : 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 

For we were used to hunters' fare, 130 

And for the like had little care : 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat ; 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 

Have moisten 'd many a thousand years. 

Since man first pent his fellow-men 

Like brutes within an iron den : 



:6o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

But what were these to us or him ? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 

My brother's soul was of that mould 140 

Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free-breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side. 

But why delay the truth ? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 

And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 

But then within my brain it wrought, 

That even in death his free-born breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there: 

The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love ; 

His empty chain above it leant. 

Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON l6l 

He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean i8o 

Strive with a swoll'n convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such, — but sure and slow: 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender, — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot ! 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most : 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

1 listen'd, but I could not hear — 
I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 



1 62 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rush'd to him ; — I found him not ; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, — the sole, — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 220 

I took that hand which lay so still ; 

Alas, my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive— 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die ; 
I had no earthly hope — but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew : — 
First came the loss of light, and air. 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 
It was not night— it was not day ; 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 1 63 

But vacancy absorbing space. 

And fixedness, without a place : 

There were no stars, — no earth, — no time, — 

No check, — no change, — no good, — no crime, — 

But silence, and a stirless breath 

Which neither was of life nor death ; 

A sea of stagnant idleness, 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankful, till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate. 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 



164 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 

And then 'twas mortal— well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone, — as the corse within its shroud ; 
Lone, — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 



XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 300 

My keepers grew compassionate : 

I know not what had made them so. 

They were inured to sights of woe ; 

But so it was— my broken chain 

With links unfasten'd did remain. 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over every part ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 165 

And round the pillars one by one, 3^0 

Returning where my walk begun, 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 320 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 2>2P 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same. 

They were not changed like me in frame ; 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below. 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 

And whiter sails go skimming down ; 34° 



66 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

And then there was a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view : 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 
But in it there were three tall trees. 
And o'er it blev/ the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing. 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous, each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save. 
And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 37° 

I ask'd not wh3^ and reck'd not where ; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 1 6/ 

And thus, when they appear'd at last, 

And all my bonds aside were cast, 

These heavy walls to me had grown 

A hermitage — and all my own ! 

And half I felt as they were come 

To tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made, 

And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 

Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 

And why should I feel less than they ? 

We were all inmates of one place, 

And I, the monarch of each race, 

Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! 

In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 

My very chains and I grew friends, 

So much a long communion tends 39° 

To make us what we are : — even I 

Regain 'd my freedom with a sigh. 



MANFRED: 

A DRAMATIC POEM 
1817 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 



Witch of the Alps, 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies.^ 

Spirits, etc. 



The scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — 

partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 

Mountains. 

ACT I. 

Scene I. — Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery,- 
Tiuie, Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber— are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 

168 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 169 

The aspect and the form of breathing men. 

But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 

Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 10 

Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 

The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 

Philosophy and science, and the springs 

Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 

I have essay 'd, and in my mind there is 

A power to make these subject to itself — 

But they avail not : I have done men good. 

And I have met with good even among men — 

But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 

And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 20 

But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life. 

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 

Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes. 

Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 30 

Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear ! 

{^A pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! — Appear ! 40 

[^A pause. 
If it be so, — Spirits of earth and air, 



I/O SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn 'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ! 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

\^A star is seen at the darker etidof the gallery : it is station- 
ary : and a voice is heard singing. 

First Spirit. 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 5<^ 

From my mansion in the cloud, 

Which the breath of twilight builds, 

And the summer's sunset gilds 

With the azure and vermilion, 

Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 

Though thy quest may be forbidden, 

On a star-beam I have ridden ; 

To thine adjuration bow'd, 

Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the S^^COm) SPIRIT. 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains : 60 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 7° 

Or with its ice delay. 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I/I 

I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou? 

Voice of the Tyliv^-d Spirit. 

In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, . 
Where the wind is a stranger. 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 80 

Her green hair with shells, 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells : 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 

Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 90 

Rise boilingly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace. 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 

I am the Rider of the wind, 100 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 



1/2 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast ; 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 

My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 

Seventh Spirit. 

The star which rules thy destiny no 

Was rule4, ere earth began, by me : 

It was a world as fresh and fair 

As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 

Its course was free and regular, 

Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 

The hour arrived — and it became 

A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 

A pathless comet, and a curse, 

The menace of the universe ; 

Still rolling on with innate force, 120 

Without a sphere, without a course, 

A bright deformity on high, 

The monster of the upper sky ! 

And thou ! beneath its influence born — 

Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 

Forced by a power (which is not thine. 

And lent thee but to make thee mine) 

For this brief moment to descend, 

Wiiere these weak spirits round thee bend 

And parley with a thing like thee — 130 

What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me .'' 



MANFKED: A DRAMATIC POEM 173 



The Seven Spirits. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 

Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of rfiortals — say? 

Man. Forgetfulness — 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me : read it there ;— 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 140 

O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators : each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

Ma7i. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou may'st die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me } 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ! 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 150 

Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye 
here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark. 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay! 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 160 

Man. Why say ye so } 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours. 



174 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

[ What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 

Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — ^ 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days — 

Ma7i. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. Hence — begone ! 170 

Spirit, Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee 
service ; 

Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 

Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. 'Approach me as ye are, | 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 180 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth '' 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 

Seventh Spirit {appearing in the shape of a beautiful 
female figure). Behold ! 

Man. O God ! if it be thus, and thou 

Art not a madness and a mockery, 

I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 190 

And we again will be — {^T he figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd. 

[Man FRED /«//j- sejiseless. 



r" 



MAMFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 75 

A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows. 

When the moon is on the wave, 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the fallen stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine. 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone : 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud : 

And forever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen. 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baotized thee with a curse ; 



1^6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

And a spirit of the air 
Hath begirt thee with a snare : 
In the wind there is a voice 
Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
And to thee shall Night deny- 
All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 230 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring : 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm : 

In proving every poison known, 240 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 

By that most seeming virtuous eye. 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee, and compel 350 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devot^ thee to this trial 

Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; -- 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear : 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 177 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 
And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 
O'er thy heart and brain together 260 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



Scene II. — The Mountain of the Jimgfrau. — Time, 
Morning. MANFRED alotie upon the Cliffs. 

iMan. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me : 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth, 
And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 10 

That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest forever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 20 

I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 



178 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

To justify my deeds unto myself — ( 

The last infirmity of evil. Ay, ) 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 30 

'yAn eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets : thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! \ 
How glorious in its action and itself ! ': 

But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 40 

To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride. 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates, 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

{The shepherd' s pipe t?i the distance is heard. 

The natural music of the mountain reed — 

For here the patriarchal days are not 

A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 50 

Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd : 

My soul would drink those echoes — Oh, that I were 

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 

A living voice, a breathing harmony, 

A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 

With the blest tone which made me ! 

E7iter from below a CHAMOIS Hunter. 
Chamois himter. Even so. 

This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here } 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1/9 

Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 60 

A height which none even of our miountaineers, 

Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 

Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 

Proud as a free-born peasant's at this distance. — 

I will approach him nearer. 

Man. {not perceiving the other). To be thus — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 70 

Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — \e toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelmlng, come and crush me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 80 

And hamlet of the harmless villager, 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury. 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 90 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Majt. Mountains have fallen. 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 



l8o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters; 

Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 

Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 

Their fountains find another channel. — Thus, 

Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 

Why stood I not beneath it ? loo 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care. 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. {not hearmg hhn). Such would have been for me 
a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth : 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus^ — thus they shall be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
[As Manfred zs in act to spriftg from the cliff, the 
Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him with a 
sudden grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though weary of thy life, no 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains v/hirl, 
Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art thou } 

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon, — Away with me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 

A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. 

And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 120 

The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 

Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. 

And something like a pathway, which the torrent 

Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 

You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

\As they descend the rocks with difficulty the scene closes. 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM l8l 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Cottage ainongst the Bernese Alps. Man- 
fred a fid the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither f 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lin- 
eage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord } I only know their portals : lo 

My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls. 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Alan. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine : 
'Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine. — Come, pledge me fairly. 20 

Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean } thy senses wander 
from thee. 

Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
y stream 

Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 



1 82 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

And loved each other as we should not love, 

And this was shed : but still it rises up, 

Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven. 

Where thou art not— and I shall never be. 3° 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-madden- 
ing sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word was 
made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell : but whatsoe'er thine ill, 40 

It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it .^ — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Ma7t. I tell thee, man, I have lived many years. 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set : I am thine elder far. 50 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 60 



MANFRED: A DRAMA'-FIC POEM 1 83 

Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils. 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 70 

And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph : 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for 
mine ? 

Man. No friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream. 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 80 

Canst thou be black with evil ?— say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Matt. Oh ! no. no, no ! 

My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence to restore thee to thyself : 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not. 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 9° 

'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold and thanks for thee : 



1 84 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path— the mountain peril's past ; 
And once again I charge thee, follow not ! 

{^Exit Manfred. 

Scene II. — A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
Enter Manfred. 

It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 

The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 

And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 

O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 

And fling its lines of foaming light along, 

And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 

The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 

As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 

But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 

I should be sole in this sweet solitude, lo 

And with the Spirit of the place divide 

The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his 
hand, and flings it in the air, jnuttering the ad- 
juration. After a pause, the WiTCH OF the Alps 
rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent. 

Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 

And dazzling eyes of glor}% in whose form 

The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 

To an unearthly stature, in an essence 

Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 

Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 2c 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 

The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 

Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC FOEM 1 85 

Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 

Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that he 30 

Avail him of his spells— to call thee thus. 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in botli, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me } 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 40 

To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 

Which is not in the power of the most powerful. 
The rulers of the invisible .'* 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it } 'tvv^ere in vain. 

Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 50 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers. 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
Was there but one who — but of her anon. 



ISO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 60 

I held but slight communion ; but instead, 

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 

The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 

Of river-stream or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my early strength exulted ; or 

To follow through the night the moving moon, 70 

The stars and their development ; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 

While autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 80 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust. 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught, 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 9° 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros. at Gadara, 

As I do thee : — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until — 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 18/ 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee loo 

Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one — 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Mail. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty: 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind no 

To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

Witch. With thy hand } 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her 
heart — 
It gazed on mine and wither d. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 120 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this — 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above. 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality — Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 



1 88 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 

My solitude is solitude no more, 130 

But peopled with the Furies, — 1 have gnash'd 

My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 

Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 

And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 140 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 

Bnt, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 

I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

My long pursued and superhuman art. 

Is mortal here — I dwell in my despai^ 

And live — and live forever. 150 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy powei;^ 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with th-em. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom } the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who serve me — Never ! 160 

Witch. Is this all } 

Hast thou no gentler answer? Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 89 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 

Man. Retire ! 

[ The Witch disappears. 

Man. [a/one.] We are the fools of time and terror : days 
Steal on us and steal from us : yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 170 

In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than fev/ — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 180 

The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor : and the Spartan monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew. 
And died unpardon'd»— though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phygalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 190 

In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living : had I never loved. 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 



190 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 

Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 

Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare ; 

Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 200 

On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 

And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 

But I can act even what I most abhor. 

And champion human fears — The night approaches. 

lExit. 

Scene III. — The Summit of the Jung f rati Mount am. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 

And here on snows, where never human foot 

Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread 

And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 

The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 

Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image : 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 10 

Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 

A Voice without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne. 
Lay buried in torpor. 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 20 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 

He's Tyrant again ! 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I9I 

With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Seco7id Voice, luithoiit. 

The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 

But 1 left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 

There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 

And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck, 

Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 30 

And he was a subject well worthy my care : 

A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 

But I sav'd him to wreak further havoc for me. 

First Destiny, answering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish, 40 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish. 
And evil and dread. 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead. 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 5c 

This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 



192 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
Our footsteps are their graves ; 

We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 

First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis? 
Seco7id Des. At some great work : 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 

Third Des. Behold, she cometh. 60 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been } 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Netn. I w^as detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness : from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date ; 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 70 

Of freedom, the forbidden fruit — Away ! 
We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

{^Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — The Hall of Arinianes — Arimanes on his 
throne, a Globe of Fire, siirroufided by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea : 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 93 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee : 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path lo 

The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the DESTINIES aiid Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Seco7id Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 20 

The necks of men bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! wx await his nod ! 

Nein. Sovereign of sovereigns, we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — thy late command's 
Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 
A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal. — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 30 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 
Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign } — Tremble, and obey ! 

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned 
clay. 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 



194 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Ma7t. * I know it ; 

And yet 3'e see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earth, 
On the bare ground, have 1 bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 40 

I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his glory ? Crouch ! I say. 

Man, Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 50 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 
Prince of the Powers Invisible ! this man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
And they have only taught him what we know — 60 

That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I95 

Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence, 

Made him a thing, v/hich I, who pity not. 

Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine 

And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 70 

No other spirit in this region hath 

A soul Hke his — or power upon his soul. 

Nem. Wliat doth he here then } 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known ; and without 
power 
I could not be amongst ye ; but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What wouldst thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 80 

The wishes of this mortal } 

Art. Yea. 

Nem. Whom wouldst thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art. 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth. 

Of the mould of thy clay. 
Which return 'd to the earth, 90 

Re-appear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest. 

The heart and the form. 
And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — appear ! — appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 



196 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

{The Phanlofn of Astarte rises aiid stands zn the 
midst. 
Man. Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 

But a strange hectic— like the unnatural red 100 

Which autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! O God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 

The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee. 

Man. She is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. no 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Art. Spirit — obey this sceptre. 

Nem. . Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me ; hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 120 

Too much, as I loved thee ; we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 9/ 

To bind me in existence — in a life 

Which makes me shrink from immortality — 

A future like the past. I cannot rest. 130 

I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 

I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 

And I would hear yet once before I perish 

The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 

For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 

Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 

Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 

Which answer'd me— many things answer'd me — 

Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 140 

Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 

And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 

Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 

And never found thy likeness. — Speak to me ! 

Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 

I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 

Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; but say — 

I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 

This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 150 

Phan. Manfred ! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven } 

Phan. Farewell. 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred ! 

[ The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 

Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 



198 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and 
makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 160 

Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers } 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where } On the earth } 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 



[Exit Manfred. 



{Scene closes.) 



ACT HI. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
Manfred atid Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Ma7i. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. {alone). There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 10 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 99 

The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kaion " found. 
And seated in my soul. It will not last. 
But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there } 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 20 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Ma7i. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count !— 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would my reverend guest } 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and zeal, my 
office. 
And good intent must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighborhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 3° 

And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many e\nl and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 



200 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 40 

Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Mail. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

Abbot . My pious .brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 50 

With the true church, and through the church to Heaven. 

Man. I h^ar thee. This is my reply : Whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances } Prove and punish ! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment. 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 60 

Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to Heaven — " Vengeance is mine alone ! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 70 

Which is remorse without the fear of hell. 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise * 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20I 

Upon itself ; there is no future pang 

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 

He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 80 

With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our Church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last ; 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 

To shun the torments of a public death 90 

From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch 'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
" It is too late — is this fidelity } " 

Abbot, And what of this 7 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

" It is too late ! " 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 100 
'Tis strange— even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig they cling like drowning men. 

Man. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth. 
To make my own the mind of other men. 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither— it might be to fall ; 
But fall even as the mountain-cataract. 



202 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, iio 

Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 

(Which casts up misty columns that become 

Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 

Lies low, but mighty still. — But this is past. 

My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Ma7i, I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway ; and soothe — and sue — 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie— v/ho would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 120 

The mass are { I disdain'd to mingle w'wh. 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 130 

And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
Ffom me and from my calling; yet so young, 
-I still would — 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 140 

Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 203 

Some of disease — and some insanity — 

And some of wither'd or of broken hearts ; 

For this last is a malady which slays 

More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 

Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 

Look upon me ! for even of all these things 

Have I partaken ; and of all these things 150 

One were enough ; then wonder not that I 

Am what I am, but that I ever was, 

Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still — 

Mail. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell ! 

{^Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 160 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
Mix'd and contending without end or order — 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish. 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more. 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 170 

I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 



204 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Scene II. — Another Chamber » 
j Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, 3^ou bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

A/an. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the wiiidow of the hall. 

Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits, who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! lo 

Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladdened, on their mountain-tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 20 

And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To v^^hom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. {Exit Manfred. 30 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20 S 

Scene lll.— T/ie Motmtains.—The Castle of Manfred 
at so7ne distance. — A terrace before a Tower. — Time, 
Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Depende7its ^Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
Without a witness. I have been within it — 
So have we all been ofttimes : but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure there is 
One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. i° 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah, Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ } 

Mamiel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Count Sigismund was proud — but gay and free — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 20 

With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour. 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 



206 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
borne strange things in them, Herman. 30 

Her. Come, be friendly j 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Mamiel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; yon red cloud which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 40 

Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower- 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom all of earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, — 

The Lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here .' 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 50 

Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20/ 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so } , 

Ma7tuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [^Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred alone. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 

Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 

I linger yet with Nature, for the night 

Hath been to me a more familiar face 

Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I learn'd the language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth, 

When I was wandering, upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall, lo 

'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 

More near from out the Caesar's palace came 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 20 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt. 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. 

And twines its roots v/ith the imperial hearths. 



208 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 30 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this ; and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which v/as not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 40 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night ! 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord, 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; it's good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 5° 

Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd, 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not : 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Ma7i. Not I : 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 209 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 

Ma?i. Look there 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Ma7i. Look there, I say, 

And stedfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 60 

Abbot. That which should shake me — but I fear it not— 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend ; — 70 

What doth he here } 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here .'' — 
I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas, lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
Hast thou to do } I tremble for thy sake ; 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him } 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder stars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
Avaunt ! 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission } 

spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being .^ answer! — 
speak ! 80 

spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee here } 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 



210 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — away ! I say. 

Mail. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 9° 

spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren — Rise ! 

{Other Spirits rise tip. 

Abbot. Avaunt, ye evil ones ! — A vaunt ! I say : — 
Ye have no pov/er where piety hath power, 
And 1 do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order : 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Mail. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; loo 

Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ? 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, no 

Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 211 

In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 

Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 

And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 

Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 120 

Spurn back, and scorn ye ! 

spirit. But thy many crim_es 

Have made thee — 

Ma7i. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done : I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 130 

Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No colour from the fieeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 140 

The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

[ The Demofis disappear. 

Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
Pray — albeit in thought — but die not thus. 

Ma7i. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 



212 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 150 
Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 
Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en his eanhless 
flight- 
Whither? I dread to think — but he is gone. 



THE DREAM 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will. 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow ? — What are they ? 
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream 'd 
Perchance in sleep ; for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



213 



214 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 

Green, and of mild declivity, the last 

As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 

Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 

Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, 40 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful : 

And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There vv^as but one beloved face on earth. 

And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 50 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased 

To live within himself ; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 60 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 



THE DREAM 21^ 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? 

Time taught him a deep answer— when she loved 70 

Another ; even 7iow she loved another. 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 

Within an antique Oratory stood 

The Boy of whom I spake; — he v/as alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 80 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of ; then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 

With a convulsion — then arose again. 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. 

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew. 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 



2l6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood ; in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had surv'ived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man. 
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 

V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 



THE DREAM 21/ 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved ; 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 140 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 

Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The starlight of his Boyhood. As he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 150 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 160 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 



2l8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny, — came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the light; 
What business had they there at such a time ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love : — oh ! she was changed 

As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 

Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 170 

They had not their own lustre, but the look 

Which is not of the earth ; she was become 

The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 

Were combinations of disjointed things ; 

And forms impalpable and unperceived 

Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 

And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 

Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 

Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 

What is it but the telescope of truth } 180 

Which strips the distance of its fantasies. 

And brings life near in utter nakedness. 

Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until, 190 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 



THE DREAM 219 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 2c» 

A marvel and a secret. — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past : it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



DARKNESS 

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless, and pathless ; and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day, 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 

And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 

And men were gathered round their blazing homes 

To look once more into each other's face ; 

Happy were those who dwelt within tTie eye 

Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands and smiled ; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 



DARKNESS 221 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 30 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild birds 

shriek'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude. 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again : — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 40 

Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought— and that was death 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd. 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 50 

Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food. 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive. 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place. 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 60 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 



222 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 

Ev'n of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 

The populous, and the powerful was a lump, 70 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless, 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 

And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd. 

They slept on the abyss without a surge — 

The waves were dead ; the tides w^ere in their grave, 

The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 80 

And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 

Of aid from them — She was the Universe ! 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 

1818 

IX. 

" ' Bring forth the horse ! ' The horse was brought ; 

In truth he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 5 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 

And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 10 

In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led ; 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 

Then loosed him with a sudden lash— 15 

Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! — my breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried on : 
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 
The last of human sounds which rose, 5 

223 



224 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

As I was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from^ that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, lo 

And snapp'd the cord which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 15 

Perchance they did not hear nor heed ; 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 

There is not of that castle-gate, 20 

Its drawbridge and portcullis weight. 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood the hearthstone of the hall ; 25 

And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 30 

From off the scorch'd and blackening roof. 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 35 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 4° 

They bound me to his foaming flank ; 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 225 

For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 45 

Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 

'* Away, away, my steed and I 

Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind : 
We sped like meteors through the sky. 
When with its crackling sound the night 5 

Is chequer'd with the northern light ; 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement lo 

On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 

And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, iS 

The verdure flies the bloody sod ; — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away, — 20 

And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 

Ke flew upon his far career ; 25 

At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 



226 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became : 30 

Each motion which I made to free 
My swoll'n limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, 

But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 35 

And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang; 
Meantime my cords were v/et with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er. 
And in my tongue the thirst became 40 

A something fierier far than fiam.e. 

XII. 

" We near'd the wild wood— 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, S 

And strips the forest in its haste — 

But these were few and far between. 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 

Ere strewn by those autumnal eves 10 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 

Which stands thereon, like stiffen'd gore 

Upon the slain vv-hen battle's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 15 

Its frosts o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 20 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 22/ 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 25 

My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 30 

Their troop came hard upon our back. 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they foUow'd on. 

Nor left us with the morning sun ; 35 

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At daybreak winding through the wood. 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 

Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 40 

At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 

I wish'd the goal already won ; 45 

But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 

Which whelms the peasant near the door 50 

Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bev/ilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favoured child 55 

Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued— who has her will. 



228 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



XIII. 

"The wood was pass'd ; 'twas more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 

And I was then not what I seem. 5 

But headlong as a wintry stream. 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er ; 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, lo 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood, 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 15 

The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 20 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbbM awhile, then beat no more : 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 25 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 

Which saw no further : he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 30 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below: 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 35 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 229 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 

My undulating life was as 

The fancied lights that flitting pass 

Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain ; 40 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain ; 

But a confusion worse than such : 

I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 

And yet I do suppose we must 45 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
And throb by throb ; till grown a pang, 
Which for a moment would convulse, 5 

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return'd, though dim, alas ! 

And thicken'd, as it v/ere with glass. 10 

Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam, too, of the sky 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream" 
The bright, broad river's gushing tide 25 

Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 30 

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 



230 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 

And dashes off the ascending waves, 

And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 25 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 

In those suspended pangs I lay, 30 

I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 

XV. 

" With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top ; a boundless plain 5 

Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 10 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the light, 
As rose the moon upon my right : 

But naught distinctly seen 
In the dim w^aste would indicate 15 

The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 20 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still. 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 2^,1 

XVI. 

" Onward we went, but slack and slow ; 
His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 5 

To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me : 
His new-born tameness nought avail'd, — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd 

Perchance, had they been free. lo 

With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more. 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 15 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas, he came ! 20 

Methought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it roll'd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 25 

And caird the radiance from their cars, 
And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XVII. 

" Up rose the sun : the mists were curl'd 

Back from the solitary world 

Which lay around — behind — before : 

What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, - 



232 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 

Lay in the wild hixuriant soil ; 

No sign of travel — none of toil ; 

The very air was mute ; 

And not an insect's shrill small horn, 10 

Nor matin bird's new voice, was borne 

From herb nor thicket. Many a werst. 

Panting as if his heart would burst, 

The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 

And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 15 

At length, while reeling on our way, 

Methought I heard a courser neigh. 

From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 

Is it the wind those branches stirs? 

No, no ! from out the forest prance 20 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide .^ 25 

A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils, never stretch'd by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 

And feet that iron never shod, 30 

And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er t'ne sea. 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 35 

The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 40 

And reeking limbs immovable, 
His first and last career is done ! 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 233 

On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong; 45 

They stop — they start — they snuff the air. 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 50 

Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide : 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside. 
And backward to the forest fly, 55 

By instinct, from a human eye, — 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 60 

From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him, nor me ; — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 65 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round. 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 70 

That makes us feel at length resign'd 

To that which our foreboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears : 

Inevitable — even a boon, 

Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 75 

Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 



234 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

At times both wish'd for and implored, 

At times sought with self-pointed sword, 80 

Yet still a dark and hideous close 

To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 85 

In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery ; 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 90 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued). 

With nought perhaps to grieve ; — 95 

The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears to his distemper'd eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 

The tree of his new Paradise, 100 

To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall : 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 

But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 105 

Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? no 

XVIII. 

" The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; 
I thought to mingle there our clay, 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 235 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed : 5 

I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die. 

Ere his repast begun ; 10 

He flew, and perch'd, then fiew^ once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit. 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 15 

But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice. 

Together scared him off at length. — 20 

I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 25 

Sensation of recurring sense, 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An ic)'^ sickness curdling o'er 30 

My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain ; 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
A sigh, and nothing more. 



XIX. 



" I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 



236 SELECTIONS FROM BY RON 

Is this a chamber where I lie ? 5 

And is it mortal, yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more. 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 10 

A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 15 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free ; 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 20 

From adding to the vulture's feast ; 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
She smil'd — and I essay 'd to speak. 

But fail'd — and she approach'd and made 25 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 

And then her hand on mine she laid, 30 

And smooth'd the pillow for my head. 
And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music follow'd her light feet ; — • 35 

But those she call'd were not awake, 
And she went forth ; but ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say 
That I had nought to fear, that all 40 

Were near, at my command or call, 



MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 23/ 

And she would not delay 
Her due return, — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 

" She came with mother and with sire^ — 

What need of more ! — I will not tire 

With long recital of the rest 

Since I became the Cossack's guest. 

They found me senseless on the plain — 5 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 

They brought me into life again — 

Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, lo 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess ? — 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 15 

To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 20 

Comrades, good night ! " 



DON JUAN 

1819 

THE SHIPWRECK 
From Canto II. 

XXIV. 

The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born ; 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow. 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headache being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the porthole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

238 



DON JUAN 239 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind ; 

At sunset they began to take in sail, 
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; 

But they could not come at the leak as yet. 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet ; 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 

XXIX. 

Into the opening; but all such ingredients 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone down^ 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 

But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them known 
To all the brother tars who may have need hence. 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
By them per hour, and they had all been undone, 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 



240 SELECTIONS FROM BY RON 

XXX. 

As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; 

The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 
And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
Or any other thing that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 

Both main and mizzen : first the mizzen went, 

The main-mast follow'd ; but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log and baflfled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted). 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 
Was going on, some people were unquiet, 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet ; 



DON JUAN 241 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 

Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 
As upon such occasions tars will ask 
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms. 

As rum and true religion : thus it was. 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms ; 

The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse, harsh waves kept time ; fright cured the 
qualms 

Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears. 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog ! " they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 

'Tis true that death awaits both you and me. 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes "; — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 



^4^ SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 

And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 
Repented all his sins, and made a last 

Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 

To quit his academic occupation, 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gone, 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — i 

The stronger pump'd, the v.'^eaker thrumm'd a sail. i 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was past, 

And for the moment it had some effect ; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 

Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect } 
But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 

'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 
And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from 
thence. 

Without their will, they carried them away : 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet day 



DON JUAN 243 

On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck. 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 



XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps ; — a wreck complete she roll'd 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 

Could do no more : he was a man in years. 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be. 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children. 

Two things for dying people quite bewild'ring. 



244 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on 

Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair 
And others went on as they had begun, 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ;• 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress ; 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so. 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 



DON JUAN 245 

A portion of their beef up from below, 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 

Been stove, in the beginning of the gale ; 
And the long-boat's condition was but bad. 

As there were but two blankets for a sail. 
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 

Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 
And two boats could not liold, far less be stored. 
To save one half the people then on board. 



XLIX. 

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 

And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 



L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft. 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have quaff'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 

Half epileptical and half hysterical : — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 



246 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell- 
Then shriek'd the timid and stood still the brave- 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIII. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got ofif before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been ; for so strong it blew, 



DON JUAN 247 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 

And then they were too many, though so few — 
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
Were counted in them when they got afloat. 



LV. 

All the rest perish'd : near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and what's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 

They must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 

Because, till people know what's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 



LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place : 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care. 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; 

Battista, though (a name call'd shortly Tita), 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 

Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 

And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 
They could not rescue him, although so close, 

Because the sea ran higher every minute, 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 



248 • SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel — which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink : 

And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuff'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
Not knowing what himself to say or do. 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set. 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 
And made theiu bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her ; the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast ; 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : 



DON JUAN 249 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 

And present peril all before surpass'd, 
They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run . 

Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 
Was all that for the present could be done : 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Were served out to the people, who begun 

To faint, and damaged bread v/et through the bags. 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 

They did their best to modif}^ their case. 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion. 

While t'other half were laid down in their place. 

At watch and watch ; thus shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 

With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 

LXIV. 

Tis very certain the desire of life 
Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife. 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 



250 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXV. 

Tis said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others — God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors — yet so true it is. 
That some, I really think, do never die : 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

And that's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way. 

Which I found veiy troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought, 
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo. 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 

Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm. 
And though at first their strength it might renew. 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 



DON JUAN 251 

Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 



LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men, 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 



LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child ; 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died. 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received (though first denied), 
As a great favor, one of the fore-paws. 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 



252 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
BHster'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not : savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done. 
Water, and wine, and food — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound: 

And when his comrade's thought each sufiferer knew, 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd. 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose : 

At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, 
But of materials that much shock the Muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better. 

They took by force from Juan, Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
"^ull'd even the savage hunger which demanded. 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 



DON JUAN 253 

None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 
The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died, as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most, in the belief in which thej^'re bred ; 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

******* 



LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increase much more ; 
'Twas not to be expected that he should. 

Even in extremity of their disaster. 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'Twas better that he did not ; for in fact, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they who were most ravenous in the act. 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 

And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream; 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 

And with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 



254 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows ; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 

But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 

******* 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the head of his arch enemy, 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water's worth : 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's crew had your berth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 



DON JUAN- 255 

They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 

Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture which like nectar stream'd ; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoll'n tongues were 
black, 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 

And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done : 

I can do nothing " ; and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit held aloof his fate : 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
With the deep deadly thought that they must part. 



256 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 
And when the wished-for shower at length was come, 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten'd and for a moment seem'd to roam, 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 

xc. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
And look'd upon it long ; and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 

He watch 'd it wistfully, until away 

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, 

And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 

xci. 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue. 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

XCI I. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 

The airy child of vapour and the sun. 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and sv.'athed in dun, 



BON juAJsr 257 

Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 

And blending every colour into one, 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 



XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- 
It is as well to think so now and then : 
'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged : and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again, 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

xciv. 

About this time a beautiful white bird, 
Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 

And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and fiutter'd round them till 

Night fell — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark. 
Returning there from her successful search. 

Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 



258 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

xcvi. 

With twilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 

The boat made way ; yet now they were so low 
They knew not where nor what they w^ere about : 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No ! " 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 

Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 

And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCVII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out and swore, 

If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
He wish'd that land he never might see more ; 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a ba)^ 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 

And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 

And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 

And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head, 
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

xcix. 

The day before, fast sleeping on the w^ater, 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her. 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 



DON JUAN 259 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 

Because it left encouragement behind : 
They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
Had sent them this for their deliverance. 



The land appear'd a high and rocky coast. 

And higher grew the mountains as they drew. 

Set by a current, toward it ; they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been tost. 
So changeable had been the winds that blew : 

Some thought it was Mount /Etna, some the highlands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



CI. 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale ; 
Their living freight was now reduced to four. 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before. 

Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Such things, a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew : 

By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 

But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter. 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water, 



26o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

cm. 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 

Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man. 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray ; 

But finding no place for their landing better. 

They ran the boat for shore — and overset her. 

cv. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 

And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd the art to some account : 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
He could, perhaps, have passed the Hellespont, 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark. 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 



DON JUAN 261 



The greatest danger here was from a shark, 

That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 
As for the other two, they could not swim, 
So nobody arrived on shore but him. 



CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 

And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'd 

Within his grasp : he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

RoH'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea. 



CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung. 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay full length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff- worn cave. 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 



Cix. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose. 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 

And quivering hand : and then he look'd for those 
. Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three. 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 



262 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

ex. 
And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 

And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand 
Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 

He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 
Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast) ; 

And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him. 

And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood and senses dim : 

And how this hea\y faintness pass'd away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 



DON JUAN : THE ISLES OF GREECE 
From Canto III. 

LXXXV. 

Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing, 

He gave the different nations something national ; 

'Twas all the same to him — " God, save the king," 
•Or " Qa tra," according to the fashion all : 

His muse made increment of anything. 

From the high lyric down to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar.^ 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he w^ould write a chanson ; 
In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 



DON JUAN 263 

In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 
The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 

In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
Would be old Goethe's — (see what says De Stael) ; 

In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentisti " ; 

In Greece he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye : 

I. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
Have found tlie fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 

3- 
The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

4. 
A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
And ships, by thousands, lay below. 

And men in nations ;— all were his ! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they ? 



264 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

5- 
And where are they ? and where art thou. 

My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
The heroic lay is tuneless now — 

The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

6. 
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 

Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
To feel at least a patriot's shame. 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face : 
For what is left the poet here ? 
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 
Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

8. 
What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah, no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head. 
But one, arise — we come, we come ! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

9- 
In vain — in vain : strike other chords. 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 



DON JUAN 265 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

II. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Poly crates — 
A tyrant : but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

12. 
The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant v/as Miltiades ! 

Oh, that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

13- 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore : 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

14. 
Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells : 
In native swords and native ranks. 

The only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
Would break your shield, however broad. 



266 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

15- 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

i6. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep : 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die ! 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXVII. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young. 
Yet in these times he might have done much worse 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feeling : but they are such liars. 

And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 

But words are things ; and a small drop of ink. 
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think : 
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this — 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his ! 



DON JUAN 267 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 

His station, generation, even his nation, 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station 
In digging the foundation of a closet, 
May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

xc. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's style, 

Than on the name a person leaves behind. 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks. 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine: 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine : 
But his life falling into Johnson's way. 

We're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

XCII. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 

Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes) ; 



268 ' SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIII. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy " ; 

Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy: 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

xciv. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado rigour. 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography ; 

A drowsy, frowzy poem call'd The Exairston, 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intellect ; 

But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
Johanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect, 

Are things which in this century don't strike 
The public mind — so few are the elect ; 

And the new births of both their stale virginities 

Have proved but dropsies, taken tor divinities. 



DON JUAN 269 



xcvi. 

But let me to my story : I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression — 
Leaving my people to proceed alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session , 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCVII. 

I know that what our neighbors called ''longueurs" 
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing. 

In that complete perfection which ensures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring — ) 

Form not the true temptation which allures 
The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to bring 

Some fine examples of the epopee 

To prove its grand ingredient is e?i?iui. 

XCVIII. 

We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps " ; 

We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, 
To show with what complacency he creeps. 

With his dear " Waggoners," around his lakes. 
He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 

Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes 
Another outcry for "a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

xcix. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " Waggon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain, 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 



270 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 



' Pedlars," and " Boats," and " Waggons ! " O, ye shades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scumlike uppermost ; and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song, above your graves may hiss — 

The " little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 



CI. 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone. 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 



Cil. 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour, 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 



DON JUAN 2fl 

cm. 

Ave Maria I 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — strike — 
That painting is no idol — 'tis too like. 

CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say 

In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 

But set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way : 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 

Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole, 

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

cv. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave fiow'd o'er, 
To where the last Csesarean fortress stood, 

Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

CVI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along : 



272 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's Hne, 

His hell-dogs and their chase, and the fair throng, 
Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. 



CVII. 

O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns. 

Cix. 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 

Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy 'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb ; 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 



DON JUAN 273 

ex. 

But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
To do with the transactions of my hero, 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's ? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of man}'- " wooden spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 
(In copying) this long canto into two : 

They'll never find it out, unless I own 
The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 

And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 
I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 
From Aristotle /<^^j/w. — See IIoujvLKrji. 



THE DEATH OF HAIDEE 
From Canto IV 

LVI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 

And like the soil beneath, it will bring forth : 
Beaut}" and love were Haidee's mother's dower ; 

But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 



274 SELECTIONS FROM B YRON 

LVII. 

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 

Till slov/ly charged with thunder, they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
But, overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LVIII, 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
And he himself o'ermaster'd, and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 

Thus much she view'd an instant, and no more — 

Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 
'On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce held 

Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 

Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ;. 

And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids bore 

Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes ; 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. 

But she defied all means they could employ. 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill — 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red : 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 



DON JUAN 275 

Corruption came not, in eacii mind to kill 

All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 



LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitel)^ chisell'd, still lay there, 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair ; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy, like life, forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause. 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token, witliout knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her, without asking why, 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat : 

Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 



276 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognized no being, and no spot. 

However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot : 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came and tuned his instrument. 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent ; 
And he begun a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 

In time to his old tune : he changed the theme, 

And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her fiash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so, being : in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came too quick. 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose, 

As one who ne'er had dwelt am^ong the sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 



DON JUAN 277 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — 
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace. 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone forever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her past : 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 



LXX. 

She died, but not alone : she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 
But closed its little being without light, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight: 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of 1ov>l. 



2yS SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare. 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away : 

None but her own and father's grave is there. 
And nothing outward tells of human clay : 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was : no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long. 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her : 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape; let none think to fly the danger. 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 



CAIN AND LUCIFER IN THE ABYSS 
OF SPACE 

(Act II., Scene I., of 'Cain,' 1821) 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not! doubt — and perish! 
thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 10 
Evil or good what is proclaimed to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters " ; and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say, 20 

Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 

279 



28o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

What thou dar'st not deny— the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 

The dust which formed your father ? 

Caitt. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 30 

Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less. 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 40 

Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Caitt. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 50 

Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 



CAIN AND LUCIFER 28 1 

To the most gross and petty paltry wants. 

All foul and fulsome, and the very best 

Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 

A most enervating and filthy cheat 

To lure thee on to the renewal of 

Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 

As frail, and few so happy — 

Cai7i. Spirit! I 60 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth). 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 70 

And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am } 

Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
And see thou show'st me things beyond 7ny power, 80 

Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they w hich dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay .'' 

Cciiti, And what art thou who dwellest 



282 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cam. Thou hast said, I must be 9° 

Immortal in despite of me, I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. How? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal } 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether! and 

Ye multiplying masses of increased loo 

And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden.^ 
Is your course measured for ye } Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry. 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
Intoxicated with eternity } 

O God ! O Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! i:^o 

How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 
(If that they die), or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is. 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 



CAIiV AND LUCIFER 283 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? Look back to thine 
earth ! 

Cain. Wliere is it? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 120 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That ! — yonder ! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cai7i. . And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 

Caifi. That they are beautiful in their own sphere. 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful. 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 130 

And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? As yet thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? 

Caijt. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly ; but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain, The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Caiji. The things I have not seen. 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 140 



284 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have 
died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then, on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh, how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
from us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth } Let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee. 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it : thou 
Shalt soon return to earth and all its dust : 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 150 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee . 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What ! is it not then new } 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thou 
Or /were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 160 

To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all u7icJi2ngeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay : 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay ; and such thou shalt behold. 

Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can surv^ey. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! 

Caiji. But the lights fade from me fast. 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd. 
And wore the look of worlds. 170 

LMcifer. And such they are. 



CAIN AND LUCIFER 285 

Caiti. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Caifi. And men ? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

C«/«. Ay ! and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them } must 
no reptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Caiti. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are gone ! 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 180 

Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses : but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took. 
Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead, 190 

All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death and dead things ? 

Caiti. I seek it not : but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold. 

Cai7i. 'Tis darkness. 



286 SELECTIONS FROM BYROiY 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapours roil 

Apart — what's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter ! 200 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death be 
peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it v,^ill be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Caitt. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

\They disappear through the clouds. 



LYRICS 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame : 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 



287 



288 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 30 

How should I greet thee ?^ — 

With silence and tears. 

MAID OF ATHENS 

ZoJt; fxov, crd'i dyaTK^. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 
Give, oh give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zgot] /loVf aa<s dycxn^. 

By those tresses unconfined, 

Woo'd by each ^gean wind, 

By those lids whose jetty fringe 

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 10 

By those wild eyes like the roe, 

Zoorf jiiov, adi dyaTt^. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
ZoDjj J.10V, ads dyaTTcS. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 

Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 20 

Though I fly to Istambol, 

Athens holds my heart ami soul: 

Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

ZgS?^ jiiovj ad's dycxTioo. 



L YRICS 289 



AND THOU ART DEAD 

Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse ! " 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return 'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth. 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 10 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 20 

Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 3° 

Shall never more be thine. 



290 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 



The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away : 40 

And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withermg leaf by leaf. 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 



I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 5° 

And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 60 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 



LYRICS 291 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 70 

And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 

THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE 

Cliinie of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

O servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea. what shore is this ? 10 

The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear. 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame : 20 

For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 



292 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 

Have left a nameless pyramid, 

Thy heroes, though the general doom 

Hath swept the column from their tomb, 

A mightier monument command, 3° 

The mountains of their native land ! 

There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 

The graves of those that cannot die ! 

'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 

Each step from splendour to disgrace; 

Enough — no foreign foe could quell 

Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 

Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 

To villain-bonds and despot sway. 39 

KNOW YE THE LAND 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in tlieir clime ? 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd w^ith perfume, 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : ^'^ 

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 

In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 

And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twme. 

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 

'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — 

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 

Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they 
tell. ^9 



L YRICS 293 



THE CORSAIRS' SONG 

" O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, 

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. 

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam. 

Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 

These are our realms, no limits to their sway, — 

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 

Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 

From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 

Oh, who can tell .'* not thou, luxurious slave ! 

Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave : 10 

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 

Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. 

And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 

The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play. 

That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way } 

That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 

And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 

That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal. 

And where the feebler faint can only feel — 20 

Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core. 

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 

No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 

Save that it seems even duller than repose : 

Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 

When lost — what recks it by disease or strife ? 

Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay. 

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 

Ours— the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 30 

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 

Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 

His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 

And they who loathed his life may gild his grave ; 



294 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply- 
In the red cup that crowns our memor}^ ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 40 

And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now ! " 



GRECIAN SUNSET 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run. 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine. 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast. 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That clos'd their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet— Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 



L YRICS 295 

But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 

The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 

But ere he sank below Cithaeron's head, 

The cup of woe was quaff 'd— the spirit fled, 30 

The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 

Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hyrnettus to the plain. 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form : 

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 

There the white column greets her grateful ray, 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 40 

The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 

The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm. 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 

All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 

And dull were his that pass'd them lieedless by. 

Again the yEgean, heard no more afar. 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 50 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 

That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 



296 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 10 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 18 

IF THAT HIGH WORLD 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 10 

And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 



LYRICS 297 

Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares ; 

With them the immortal waters drink, 
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 

O! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM 

O ! SNATCh'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb , 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom ; 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 10 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress ; 

Will this unteach us to complain ! 
Or make one mourner weep the less ! 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind } 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way .? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 



298 SELECIVONS FROM BYRON' 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 10 

All, all in earth or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memor}'- holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds. 

And all. that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth. 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the farthest heaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its rising track. 20 

And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd, or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly, 3° 

A nameless and eternal thing. 

Forgetting what it was to die. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 



Z YJilCS 299 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 10 

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved,— and forever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ! 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 10 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, ' 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



300 SELECTIONS FROM BYROM 



SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING 

So, we'll go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 
And the soul wears out the breast, 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 

And the day returns too soon, 
Yet we'll go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD 
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in stor}^ ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-tv%^enty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that 

wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ! 

Oh Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 



L YRICS 301 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



SONG OF THE SOUTH-SEA ISLANDERS 



How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, 

When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsel said : 

The wood-dove from the forest-depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Boolotoo : 

We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head ; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 

Who, from toil and tumult of their lives. 

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives ! 

Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, 

And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 



II. 

Yes— from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers. 
Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers. 
Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf. 
Then lay our limbs along the tender turf. 



302 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 30 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly 's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival. 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes, 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds : 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 40 

But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 

The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field : 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 

But feast to-night ? to-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd. 

Around our waists the tappa's white display'd ; 

Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's. 

And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings ; 5° 

So shall their brighter liues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But not to-night— to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 



I 



L YRiCS 303 

How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 

Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 60 

Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 

Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep ! 

We too will see Licoo ; but — oh! my heart ! 

What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR 

MlSSOLONGHI,_/a«. 22, 1824. 

*TiS time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf ; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; k 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 
But v/ear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now. 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 2c 



304 SELECTIONS FROM BYROM 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 30 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out— less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 

And take thy rest. 40 



NOTES 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

The first two cantos of ' Childe Harold, ' it would seem, were 
written incidentally and their publication was almost by acci- 
dent. On his return from his first journey abroad Byron brought 
home a poem, the 'Imitation of Horace,' with which he hoped 
to follow up the success of 'English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers.' It was quite with indifference that he informed his friend 
Dallas that he had written, while abroad, also "a great many 
stanzas in Spenser's measure, relative to the countries he had vis- 
ited." These stanzas apparently he regarded as of little worth 
and had scarcely thought of publishing, Dallas, however, per- 
suaded him to publish them ; and so ' Childe Harold ' saw the 
light. 

The poem thus composed and printed owed little, accordingly, 
save its stanza, to literary tradition, and seems to be wholly orig- 
inal and spontaneous in design. External unity it has none, save 
in the perfunctory presence and personality of the Childe himself. 
There is enough of narrative, however, to suggest the epic genre, 
enough of description to suggest tlic didactic and idyllic poetry of 
the Eighteenth century, and enough of the movement and emotion 
of song to suggest the lyric. Indeed the real unity of the poem is 
in the personality of the poet, and the poet here as elsewhere is 
constantly and passionately personal and subjective. So that 
' Childe Harold ' is more of a lyrical poem (in this restricted and 
modern sense) than anything else. It seems, indeed, superficially 
to answer to the description of " a glorified guide-book " and " a 
rhythmical diorama," which has been applied to it. But the 
presence of a potent poetic personality throughout keeps it always 
in the domain of high poetry, and renders it interesting and com- 

305 



3o6 ' NOTES 

plete as a whole. The poet's preface (quoted below) suggests 
only the superficial aim of the composition. Its essential and po- 
etical aim, to record and communicate the reaction of picturesque 
and stirring scenes and events upon the sensitive and powerful 
genius of the poet, is of course left unstated, but is the real aim 
with which the reader is concerned. 

As to the relation of the poet to the hero of the poem, Byron's 
disclaimer of identity in his preface must fairly be accepted. Ob- 
viously the poet speaks directly through the lips of Childe 
Harold, and invests him with circumstances drawn from his own 
experience, at least occasionally and when it suits his purpose. 
But generally the Childe is a creature of the imagination, and 
speaks the poet's thoughts idealized, objectified, and transformed, 
and not in their prosaic reality. 

Chapters dealing with the period in his career covered by 
* Childe Harold ' from any standard life of Byron may profitably 
be read in connection with the poem. See, preferably, ' Byron's 
Works, the Letters and Journals, ' edited by R. E. Prothero (Lon- 
don 1898) vol. I, ch. iv, vol. II, ch. v, vol. Ill, chs. xiii-xiv, and 
vol. IV, chs. xv-xvi. See also the appropriate chapters in the 
Lives by Moore, Nichol, Roden Noel, Elze, Jeaffreson, etc. 

What distinguishes Byron's treatment of nature in this and 
other poems ? Does he emphasize general features or details ? 
What aspects does he characteristically present ? Does he often 
practise "descriptive" poetry? Has he a discriminating eye 
and ear for color and for sounds ? Does the treatment of nature 
in the several cantos differ ? and in what respects ? What is the 
prevailing tone of sentiment in each canto ? 

Other subjects connected with ' Childe Harold ' which may be 
investigated with interest and profit are the following : 

1. The poetic style of ' Childe Harold ': use of contrast, an- 
tithesis, apostrophe, climax, transition, ellipsis, and the other 
figures of speech. 

2. Its use of tropes; does it abound in simile and metaphor ? 
Comparative amount of each ; special qualities of ; sources whence 
they are drawn; personification; poetical epithets, — favorite 
forms, and how may they be classified ? 

3. Grammatical irregularities. 

4. Versification; Byron's handling of the Spenserian stanza; 



NOTES 307 

use of rhyme; pauses; alliteration. Difference in the several 
cantos, and explanation thereof. 

5. Analysis of the structure of the poem; subjects of the sev- 
eral parts of each canto. 

The difference in style and tone between the first two and the 
last two cantos of the whole poem, separated as they are by six 
or seven years in date of composition, is noteworthy. In the con- 
trast we study the development of the poet's mind and art. What 
(with reference to the modern characterization of Shakspere's sev- 
eral periods) should be named as the distinguishing traits of 
Byron's art and mind in their development in each of the periods 
given in the outline of his life, at pp. li-liv, above ? 



ITINERARY. 

(Abridged, for Cantos I and II, from E. H. Coleridge's edition 
of Byron's Poems, 1899, vol. II.) 

1809 Canto I. 

July 2. Sails from Falmouth in Lisbon packet (stanza xii). 

" 6. Arrives Lisbon (sts. xvi, xvii). Visits Cintra (sts. 
xviiifif.). 

'' 17. Leaving Lisbon, rides through Portugal and Spain to Se- 
ville (sts. xxx-xlii). Visits Albuera (st. xliii). 

'< 21. Arrives Seville (sts. xlv, xlvi). 

•'25. Leaving Seville, rides to Cadiz, across the Sierra Morena 
(st. li). Cadiz (Ixxi ff.). 

1809 Canto IL 

Aug. 17. Sails from Gibraltar in Malta packet (stanzas xvii- 

xxvii). 
Sept. 19-26. Sailing from Malta in brig-of-war Spider^ passes be- 
tween Cephalonia and Zante, and anchors ofT 
Petras. 
Sept. 27. In the channel between Ithaca and the mainland (sts. 
xxxix-xlii), 
*' 28. Anchors off Prevesa (st. xlv). 



308 NOTES 

1809 

Oct. 5. Arrives Janina (st. xlvii). 
" II. Arrives Zitza (sts. xlviii-li). 
<< 14. " Delvinaki (st. liv). 

'< 19. •' Tepeleni (sts. Iv-lxi). 

** 20. Reception by Ali Pacha (sts. Ixii-lxiv). 
Nov. 8. Leaving Prevesa, anchors near Parga (sts. Ixvii, Ixviii). 
" 9. Leaves Parga, and, returning by land, arrives Volon- 

dorako (st. Ixix). 
" 14. Arrives Utraikey=Lutraki (sts. Ixx, Ixxii, Song '*Tam- 
bourgi, Tambourgi "). 
Dec. 16. Visits Delphi, the Pythian cave, and stream of Castaly 
(Canto I, sts. i, Ix). 
'' 25, Passes Phyle, arrives Athens (Canto II, sts. i ff., Ixxiv). 
1810 

Jan. 16. Visits Mendeli=Pentelicus (st. Ixxxvii). 
"■ 23. Visits temple of Athene at Sunium (st. Ixxxvi;. 
*' 25. Visits plain of Marathon (sts. Ixxxix, xc). 
May 13. Arrives Constantinople (sts. Ixxvii-lxxxi). 

1816 Canto IIL 

Apr. 25. Sails for Ostend (st. ii). 
•' 26?-May7? Passing through Ghent, Antwerp, and Mech- 
lin, arrives at Brussels, and visits field of 
Waterloo (xvii ff.). 
May 7 ?-25. Leaves Brussels and journeys along the Rhine to 
Geneva (xlvi ff.), passing the castle of Drachen- 
fels (Iv ff.), Coblentz (Ivi) and Ehrenbreitstein 
(Iviii), Morat, near Meyriez (Ixiii-lxiv), and Aven- 
ches (Ixv-lxvii); Lake Leman (Ixviii). 
May 25 -June 10. At Secheron, near Geneva, with the Shelleys. 
June 10. To Villa Diodati, near Geneva. 

June 23-July I. Journey around Lake Leman in Byron's boat in 
company with the Shelleys (Ixxxv ff.), visiting 
Meillerie, Clarens (xcix ff.), Vevay, the castle 
of Chillon, Ouchy, and Lausanne (cv) — Cf. 
Shelley's ' History of a Six Weeks' Tour.' 
June 27. First draft of • Childe Harold,' Canto III, completed. 



NOTES 309 

1816 Canto IV. 

Oct. 8 ? Starts for Italy, passing through Martigny, Milan, and 
Verona, and arriving in Venice by the eleventh of 
November. Life in Venice (stanzas i-xix). 

1817 

April 16 ? Leaves Venice for Rome, visiting Arqua and Ferrara 
(xxx-xxxix), Florence (xlviii-lxi), Lake Thrasimene 
(Ixii-lxv), Foligno and the temple of Clitumnus 
(Ixvi-lxviii), Terni (Ixix-lxxii), and crossing the 
Apennines (Ixxiii-lxxvii). 

Apr. 29 ? Arrives in Rome (Ixxviii ff. ). Leaves, May 20. 

May 28. Arrives in Venice. 

Cantos I and II. 

Begun at Janina, in Albania, October 31, 1809 ; finished, ex- 
cept for certain stanzas of later composition, at Smyrna, March 
28, 1810. Stanzas i, xliii, and xc of Canto I, and stanzas ix, xci, 
xcii, xcv, xcvi of Canto II were added before printing, while 
others were revised or recast. The two cantos were published 
March 10, 1812. In the seventh edition, in 1814, appeared for the 
first time the Dedication and ten additional stanzas near the end 
of Canto II. 

The following are the motto and the original preface which Byron 
prefixed to this poem : 

" L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere 
page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuillete un assez grand 
nombre, que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. Get examen ne ni'a 
point ete infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les imperti- 
nences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, m'ont reconcilie 
avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que 
celui-li, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues." — Le Cos- 
mopolite [by M. de Montbron, ' Londres,' 1753]. 

PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS. 

The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the 
scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania ; and 
the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the au- 
thor's observations in those countries. This much it may be necessary 
to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted 



3IO NOTES 

to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. 
There, for the present, the poem stops : its reception will determine 
whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital 
of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are merely 
experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some con- 
nection to the piece ; which, however, makes no pretension? to regu- 
larity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I 
set a high value, that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I 
may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage ; this 
I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim— Harold is a child of imagination, 
for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and 
those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in 
the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe," 
as " Childe Waters," " Childe Childers," etc., is used as more conso- 
nant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted.! 
The " Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested 
by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the "Border Minstrelsy," ed- 
ited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish 
subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part 
which treats of the Peninsula ; but it can only be casual, as, with the 
exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was 
written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our "most successful 
poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following ob- 
servation : " Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of 
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and 
be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satir- 
ical, as the humor strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the measure which 
I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition." 
Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of 
some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for 
attempts at similar variations in the following composition ; satisfied 
that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution 
rather than in the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, 
Thomson and Beattie.2 

London, February, 1812. 

1 In older English the term usually signifies a youth of gentle birth 
awaiting knighthood, Spenser frequently applies it to Prince Arthur 
in the ' Faerie Queene.' Cf. Rrov/ning's Childe Roland. [Ed. 

2 Cf. Ariosto, ' Orlando Furioso'; Thomson,, 'Castle of Indolence'; 
Beattie, ' The Minstrel.' [Ed. 



NOTES 311 



CANTO I 



1 : Stanzas to lanthe : This dedication to lanthe was written in 
the autumn of 181 2, and first appeared in the seventh issue of the 
first two cantos of Childe Harold^ February i, 1814. lanthe was 
Lady Charlotte Harley (born 1801), daughter of Byron's friend, 
Lady Oxford. 

2 ; V, I. Such is thy name. lanthe, as if from lov (= violet 
or narcissus, sometimes, as XevKo-iov^ identified with the lily), 
and avQoS, a flower. 

3:1. A more or less conventional invocation, after the tradi- 
tion of epical poetry, composec, not, like most of the stanzas that 
follow, on the spot, but after Byron's return to England. The 
visit to the sacred hill of Parnassus, the vaunted ''rill" of Cas- 
taly, and Apollo's shrine at Felphi, occurred Dec. 16, 1809, sev- 
eral months after the visit to the scenes described in the opening 
stanzas. Cf. st. LX. 

3 : ii. This stanza is autobiographical, but exaggerated. By- 
ron's youth was marred by much excess, but he was not quite 
the figure here painted. He always delights in bravado and in 
shocking the unco' guid (''Ah me ! in sooth he was a shameless 
wight"). Note what Byron says in his preface, above, on the 
idealization of the character of his hero. 

3 : ii, 4. Vexed . . . the drowsy ear seems to be a half echo of 
the lines in Shakspere's King John III, iv : 

" Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, 
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man." 

Cf. also III, iii, 39: "the drowsy race of night," emended by some 
editors into "the drowsy ear of night." 

Byron abounds in such literary echoes, allusions, and half- 
quotations. It is part of his style, and he expects his reader to 
feel them. 

3 : iii, I. Childe Harold. "Childe Burun" in Byron's original 
manuscript ; and so for some distance onward in the poem : a 
further proof of the essentially autobiographical (although poeti- 
cally autobiographical) intention of the poem. 

I. hight = was called (A.-S. hatan), properly a passive 
verb in itself, and so not requiring the auxiliary was, as fre- 



312 NOTES 

quently in Spenser and earlier poets. The form with the auxil- 
iary, however, is justified by long usage. 

4 : iv, 7. Byron was sated at the end and ready to lay down 
his life, but this is a romantic satiety; doubtless sincere enough 
as a passing mood, but there was abundance of life and enjoyment 
still before him, as this poem alone sufficiently testifies. Shelley, 
too, although in a different tone, utters the complaint of satiety: 

" Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.' 

(' To a Skylark'). 

It is a note of the current romanticism. Alfred de Musset 
("Byron and eau sticree'') in France echoes it. 

4 : V, 3. The allusion is to Mary Chaworth, the heiress of an 
estate adjoining Newstead, and somewhat older than Byron, for 
whom in 1803 he conceived a hopeless passion, "his first real 
love," which he refers to in several of his minor poems. 

5 : vii, I. Newstead Abbey, in Nottinghamshire, the heredi- 
tary seat of the Byrons. 

7 : xiii, 9. See Byron's Preface, above p. 309. The first 
stanza of Lord Maxwell's "Good Night" (in Scott's ' Minstrelsy of 
the Scottish Border,' 18 10, vol. I, p. 297) is as follows: 

Adieu, madame, my mother dear, 

But and my sisters three ! 
Adieu, fair Robert of Orchardstane ! 

My heart is wae for thee. 
Adieu, the lily and the rose, 

The primrose fair to see : 
Adieu, my ladie, and only joy ! 

For I may not stay v.ith thee. 

8 : xiv. From this point Byron drops most of the affectation of 
archaism introduced in the earlier stanzas, and assumes more of 
his own free, vigorous utterance and rhythm. Striking is the 
skill with which, as in this stanza, the poet combines the im- 
pression of narrative flow and vivacity with richness and interest 
of picturesque description. 

8 : XV, 9. The French under Napoleon, who invaded Portugal 
in 1807. 

9 : xviii, 8. The reference is to Dante's " Paradiso." 

10 : xix-xxii. Compare this, as a specimen of poetical de- 



NOTES 313 

scription, with that of the Rhine in canto HI, stanzas Ix-lxi. 
Notice how in successive line-long phrases in stanza xix the pic- 
ture is put together, how well the details are selected, and with 
what effective epithets they are brought out. By what devices 
does the poet emphasize the human interest of his picture ? 

10 : XX, 4. " Since the publication of this poem I have been 
informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. 
It was owing to the want of the tilde^ or mark over the ;7, which 
alters the signification of the word : with it Pena signifies a rock; 
without it, Pena has the sense I adopted, /do not think it nec- 
essary to alter the passage; as, though the common acceptation 
affixed to it is 'Our Lady of the Rock,' I may well assume the 
other sense from the severities practised there " [Byron's note, 
in Second Edition. 

11 : xxii, 6. William Beckford (1760-1844), author of 
'Vathek,' lived for three years (i 794-1 796) near Cintra. Byron 
greatly admired ' Vathek, ' the romance. 

12 : xxxii, I. Lusitania and her Sister, i.e., Portugal and 
Spain. 

12 : xxxiv, 4. Ancient roundelays. The Spanish ballads. 
See 'The Spanish Ballads,' translated by J. G. Lockhart, e.g. 
' The Bull-Fight of Gazul.' 

13 : XXXV, 2. Pelagio, or Pelayo, the Spanish hero and king 
who rallied the Christian arms in northern Spain and first made 
head against the Moors, 718 A.D. His standard, a wooden cross, 
is still preserved at Oviedo. 

3. Cava s traitor-sire. Count Julian, liegeman of Roderick 
the Goth, whose daughter Cava Roderick had violated, and who 
in revenge allied himself with the Moors, calling them into Spain 
in 711. Roderick was defeated and slain, and the Moorish oc- 
cupation of Spain ensued. Cf. Southey's 'Roderick,' and Sir 
Walter Scott's 'Vision of Don Roderick.' 

7. The Moors were finally expelled in 1492. 

8. In Christian symbolism the cross is often red. So Spenser's 
Red-Cross Knight : 

" And on his brest a bloudie crosse he bore, 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord." 
Similarly the crescent, representing the moon, is usually silver 
gilt in Moslem lands, 



314 NOTES 

14 : xxxix, 8. The battle of Talavera, in which Wellington 
and the Spaniards won a doubtful victory over the French, began 
July 27, 1809, and lasted two days. Byron was not present, but 
visited the spot soon after. 

15 : xliii. The battle of Albuera, where the English and 
Spaniards defeated the French, was fought May 15, 181 1. This 
stanza was added after Byron's return to England. 

16 : xlvi. Byron's visit to Seville was at the end of July, 1809. 
Seville surrendered to the French January 31, 18 10, after very 
little resistance. 

17 : xlvii, 6. Fandango, a Spanish dance, here personified. 
17 : xlviii, 5. Viv^ el Key, "Long live King Ferdinand! is 

the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are 
chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, and 
[Godoy] the Prince of Peace. " [Byron's note. — Manuel de Godoy 
(1767-185 1), who received the title of Principe de la Paz, was 
the reputed paramour of the Queen, and raised by her from low 
estate, becoming prime minister of Spain during the period of the 
downfall of the national power and the greatest degradation of 
the state. 

17 : xlix. Description of the region of the plain of the Guadal- 
quivir and heights of Sierra Morena in the south of Spain. In- 
vaded by the French in June, 1808. 

7. The Dragon s Nest, the city of Jaen, recaptured from the 
French by the Spanish early in July, 1808. 

18: 1, 2-3. "The red cockade, with 'Fernando Septimo' in 
the center " [Byron's note. 

18 : li. Description of Wellington's fortifications. 

18 : Hi, I. The deeds to come. In 1811 Wellington drove 
the French from Portugal. 

18 : Hi, 6. The West, Spain, or Hesperia. 

19 : liv. Augustina, the Maid of Saragossa, who (according 
to the account of the day), when that city was besieged by the 
French and her lover killed at his gun, snatched the match from 
his hand and worked the gun in his place. Byron saw her at 
Seville. Cf. her story in South ey's < History of the Peninsular 
War'. 

3. The anlace, a short knife or dagger. 

30 : Ivi, The rhetorical structure of this stanza is noteworthy. 



NOTES 315 

Observe that to each of the first four lines answers in sense the 
corresponding line of the second quatrain. 

20 : Ix. "These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos) at 
the foot of Parnassus, now called AiaKvpa (Liakura), December 
[16], 1809 " [Byron's note. 

JV/iom I now survey. The summit of Parnassus, it is said, is 
not visible from Delphos. So in reality Byron is describing the 
scene from memory. 

23 : Ixxvi, 5. Croupe, for croupade, a particular leap or curvet 
taught the horse. 

CANTO II 

The opening stanzas by a bold transition introduce at once the 
chief theme of the canto, Greece, her ancient glories and present 
ruin, especially as suggested by the fate of her noblest monument 
of art, the Parthenon. The poet then returns to the subject of 
his journey, beginning with a description of the voyage from 
Malta to Greece in a brig of war. 

25 : i. Athena is invoked. Her temple is the Parthenon on. 
the Acropolis at Athens, which was badly damaged by powder 
explosions in 1656 and 1687. At the time of Byron's visit "the 
dread sceptre and dominion dire " of the Turks was over Greece. 

25 : iii. The point of view is changed and the poet imagines 
himself to be standing amid the ruins of the temple of Zeus, with 
the Acropolis ("this spot ") in full view. 

26 : V, 1-2. For example, one of the tumuli in the plain of 
Troy near the shores of the Hellespont, raised perhaps to the 
memory of Ajax or Achilles. 

7 ff. Moralizations in the manner of Hamlet's over the skull of 
Yorick. 

27 : vii, 1-2. The reference is to Socrates, who, however, did 
not assert that "nothing can be known," but merely that he was 
wiser than others in knowing that he knew nothing. Cf. Con- 
greve, ' The Old Bachelor,' I, i : " You read of but one wise man, 
and all he knew was, that he knew nothing." 

27 : viii, 3. 'Acts' xxiii, 8: "For the Sadducees say that 
there is no resurrection." Cf. 'Acts' iv, 2, and 'Matthew' 
xxii, 23. 



3l6 NOTES 

9. Zoroaster was born in Bactriana, Pythagoras in Samos. 

29 : xxii, I. Calpe, the ancient name of Gibraltar. 

8. Mauritania^ the ancient name of Morocco. 

30 : XXV. Is this stanza Wordsworthian in spirit ? In what 
respects is it unlike Wordsworth's manner of conceiving and ex- 
pressing Nature ? In the next stanza, placed in careful rhetori- 
cal antithesis to this, the note and the plaint of the personal 
Byron recur. Cf. stanza xxxvii. See also Canto III, xcii- 
xcvi, and 'Manfred,' Act II, scene ii. 

31 : xxvii. Cf. Wordsworth's 'Prelude' IV, 354-364. This 
stanza was an afterthought, and was first published in the seventh 
edition, 18 14. 

2. Mount Athos, on whose slopes are many monasteries of the 
Greek Church. 

32 : xxxviii. "Albania comprises parts of Macedonia, Illyria, 
Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alex- 
ander " [Byron's note. 

2. Beacon of the wise is a Shaksperian echo. Cf. ' Troilus 
and Cressida ' II, ii, 17 : "Modest doubt is called The beacon 
of the wise. ' ' 

3. George Castriota (1404-1467), called Scanderbeg, i.e., 
Iskander Bey, or Lord Alexander, who successfully defended his 
fatherland, Albania, against the attacks of the Turks. 

32 : xxxix, I. 7he barren spot. Ithaca. 

3. The mount. The white cliffs of Leucadia, whence Lesbian 
Sappho is said to have cast herself, from disappointed love. 

9. Apparently, ' the only immortality is the subjective immor- 
tality given by verse.' 

33 : xliii, 3. "Of Albania Gibbon remarks that a country 
' within sight of Italy is less known than the interior of America ' " 
[Byron's note. 

34 : xlv. Ambracia's gulf. Arta, where the battle of Actium 
(31 B. C.) was fought. Here Antony, owing to the flight of 
Cleopatra's galleys during the engagement, was overcome by 
Augustus. 

6. "Nicopolis [the city of victory], whose ruins are most ex- 
tensive, is at some distance from Actium" [Byron's note. It was 
built by Augustus to commemorate Actium. 

35: xlvii, 2. The primal city. The chief city, Janina. 



NOTES 3^7 

4. Albania's chief. AH Pasha, who subdued the country and 
extended his pashalik over the greater part of Greece. A severe 
and barbarous, but an able ruler, whose picturesque character 
greatly interested Byron. 

35 ; xlviii. " The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
journey from Joannina or Yanina, the capital of the Pachalick. 
In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and, 
not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. The situation is, per- 
haps, the finest in Greece "... [Byron's note. 

35 : xlix, 6. caloyer, from the late Greek Ka\6yT]poi, " good old 
man," the usual term for monks in Greece. 

37 : liii. The site of the oracle of Dodona, long unknown, 
was determined only in 1876. It is at Dramisus, south of Janina. 

37: Iv. Tomerit. "Anciently Mount Tomarus" [Byron's 
note. — Now Mount Olytsika, to the west of Janina. Laos. 
perhaps a blunder for Aous (modern Viosa). "The finest river 
in the Levant " [Byron. 

38 : Ivi, 7. Santons. A kind of dervish or Mahometan 
monk. 

38 : Iviii, 5. Delhi. Turkish word for madmen ; hence a term 
for the battle-intoxicated Turkish warriors. 

7. Nubian eunuch. 

39 : Ix, I. The Ramazati, or Turkish Lent, or month of fast- 
ing. The fasting, however, is confined to the day-time. 

40 : Ixiii, 4. the Teian. Anacreon, of Teos. It is probable 
that Byron remembered Moore's version (of 1800). ' IVine con- 
quers Age ' is more often the burden of Anacreon's song, as of 
Hafiz's. But see Ode I : 

" I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, 
The minstrel of the Teian measure . . . 
. . . His tresses wore a silvery dye, 
But beauty sparkled in his eye ; 
Sparkled in his eyes of fire. 
Through the mist of soft desire." 

And cf. Odes vii, xxxix, xlvii. 

40 : Ixiii, 5-9. A curious prevision ! Three weeks after 
' Childe Harold ' was published Ali committed his worst atrocity, 
causing the massacre of nearly seven hundred inhabitants of Gar- 
diki, in revenge for wrongs done his mother and sister nearly 



3l8 NOTES 

thirty years before. His own bloody death occurred in 1822, 
when he was treacherously assassinated by Mohammed Pasha. 

41 : Ixx, I, Utraikey. A village on the gulf oi Arta, near 
Actium. 

41 : Ixxi, 7. "Palikar, . . . from TraXi/ca/st [TraXX-^/ca/oi], a 
general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese 
who speak Romaic : it means, properly, 'a lad.' " [Byron's note. 

42 : The song ' Tambourgi.' " These stanzas are partly taken 
from different Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them 
out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian " 
[Byron's note. 

42 : Song, I. Tambourgi^ Turkish for drummer ; from the 
French tatnbour. 

42 : Song, 2. Ca/nese, kilt or skirt : French chemise. So 
Spenser's Amazon is arrayed 

" All in a camis light of purple silk." 

(' Faerie Queene,' V, v, 2. 

43: Song, 8. When Frevisa fell. "It was taken by storm 
from the French " [by Ali Pasha's forces, October, 1798]. 
[Byron's note. 

43 : Song, 10. All's eldest son, Mukhtar, the Pasha of Berat, 
had been sent against the Russians, who, in 1809. invaded the 
trans-Danubian provinces of the Ottoman Empire (E. H. Cole- 
ridge). 

Giaoz{r. The Turkish term for ' infidel ' ; here meaning the 
Russians. Usually for the Christians in general, as in st. Ixxvii. 
— his horse-tail. The insignia of a Pasha. 

43 : Song, II. ^^/fV/flr= sword-bearer. 

44 : Ixxiii. Cf. Byron's song from 'Don Juan,' "The Isles of 
Greece," above, p. 263. See also 'The Giaour,' the lines begin- 
ning, 

" 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more," 

where follows the same appeal to the memory of Thermopylae. 

44 : Ixxiv, 1-2. " Phyle, which commands a beautiful view 
of Athens, has still considerable remains : it v/as seized by 
Thrasybulus, previous to the expulsion of the Thirty [Tyrants 
from Athens]." [Byron's note. — From this spot Byron had his 
first view of Athens. 



NOTES 319 

45 : Ixxvii. Othman's race. Othman was the founder of the 
Ottoman dynasty, in the thirteenth century. 

3. The Serai, or Seraglio, is the palace of the Sultan. 

4. "When taken by the Latins and retained for several years 
[1204-1261]." [Byron's note. 

5. The sect of the Wahabees, founded by the Arab sheik Wahab, 
attacked and sacked Mecca and Medina in 1803-4. 

46 : Ixxix, 2. Starnboul : Constantinople. Empress of their 
reign: reign in the sense of regnum ; hence ' capital of their 
(the Greek's) empire.' 

46 : Ixxxi, I. Caique. A small boat (Turkish kaik). 

47 : Ixxxvi, 1-2. *' Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the mar- 
ble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The 
modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave, formed by 
the quarries, still remains, and will to the end of time" [Byron's 
note. 

3. Tritonia. One of the names applied to Athena (Minerva). 

47 : Ixxxvii, 3. Minerva's (Athena's) gift to Athens was the 
olive. 

48 : Ixxxviii. Stanzas Ixxxviii-xc were first included in the 
seventh edition, 18 14. 

9. Athena' s tower. The Parthenon. Tower is a word which 
Byron uses, poetically, for any considerable building. 

48 : xc, 8. The mound supposed to mark the burial place of 
the Athenians slain in the battle, on the plain of Marathon, was 
opened not long before Byron's visit. "What then must be our 
feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
(Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barrow has re- 
cently been opened by Fauvel : few or no relics, as vases, etc., 
were found by the excavator. ..." [Byron's note. 

49: xci, 3. With th' Ionian blast, i.e., coming, as Byron did, 
borne on by the Western winds over the Ionian sea. 

49 : xcv-xcviii. These stanzas were written after Byron's re- 
turn in 181 1, while the two Cantos were passing through the 
press. 

49 : xcv. The poet, about to end his song, and stating his 
reasons for giving up the struggle for poetic fame, comes in this 
stanza to add another reason in the loss of some nameless friend, 
perhaps t^ie mysterious and unknown Thyrza of other poems. 



320 NOTES 

49 : xcvi, 6. The Parent. Byron's mother died after his re- 
turn to England, but before he was able to see her. About the 
same time died also some three or four of his old friends, chief 
of whom perhaps was Matthews. But here probably the friend 
(Eddlestone) referred to in stanza ix, is again commemorated. 

50 : xcviii. A pathetic commentary upon this concluding 
stanza of the first part of ' Childe Harold ' is afforded by a pas- 
sage in Byron's letter of October ii, 1811, to his friend Dallas, 
inclosing these additional stanzas for the press. " I have been 
again shocked with a death," he writes, " and have lost one very 
dear to me in happier times ; but ' I have almost forgot the taste 
of grief,' and ' supped full of horrors ' till I have become callous, 
nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have 
bowed down my head to the earth. It seems as though I were to 
experience in my youth the greatest misery of age. My friends 
fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am 
withered." 

CANTO III 

Begun, near Lausanne, Switzerland, early in May, 1816, and 
finished on the 27th of the following month. Published November 
i8th, i8i6. 

More directly personal than the preceding cantos and with less 
of the conventional Childe Harold, this canto is the noblest record 
of the Byron of 1810-1816. These years had been years of sudden 
fame, abounding life, and startling vicissitude for the poet. Once 
more, at the end of this period, separated from his wife, execrated 
by the public that had but now adored him, he set out on his 
travels, from which he was never again to return. And once 
more, under the stimulus of travel, living a new life, he poured 
forth his mind in these tumultuous, resonant, and eloquent stanzas. 
Again, but more loosely, an itinerary (Waterloo, the Rhine, 
Switzerland) is followed throughout the canto. Byron is six years 
older: experience, brilliant and bitter, has matured him; and his 
art has matured. There is greater fire and force ; his imagination 
is more impressive and grandiose ; external nature is more grandly 
felt and rendered; his historical and human sympathies are 
broader and deeper. / So his style becomes more vigorous but 



NOTES 321 

more irregular. The archaisms of the first two cantos are practi- 
cally abandoned. The conventional device of the hero Childe 
Harold is kept up only through some dozen stanzas. Similes are 
more frequently introduced; as are feminine rhymes. The versi- 
fication becomes more varied and less regular. Inversions in the 
rhythm are more frequent, and pauses within the line, with the 
corresponding run-on effect from line to line and even from stanza 
to stanza, are more often used. The poet, without perhaps having 
developed his instrument to its greatest technical perfection, dom- 
inates his material, and more than before subjects his form to his 
matter. ) 

Of '-the new Childe Harold" (i.e. Canto III) Byron wrote to 
Moore Jan. 28, 1817: "I am glad you like it; it is a fine indis- 
tinct piece of poetical desolation, and my favourite. I was half 
mad during the time of its composition, between metaphysics, 
mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts unutterable, and 
the night-mare of my own delinquencies." 

51 ; Motto. The preceding part of the sentence runs: " Je vou- 
drais fort qu'on vous proposat quelque probleme bien difficile a 
resoudre, afin que," etc. 

51 : i. Byron's daughter, Augusta Ada, was born Dec. 10, 
1815; after Byron's death she was married to William King Noel, 
afterwards Earl of Lovelace, and died in 1852, leaving three 
children. 

5. Awaking with a start, as if from the dream suggested in 
the preceding lines, and to find himself on shipboard, leaving 
England and all that had been dear to him. The sudden transi- 
tion (the rhetorical shock), as here, is a favorite device of Byron's. 
Cf. stanza xvii, below. 

51 : ii. The master-poet is revealed at once in the two intense 
emotional similes of this stanza ("as a steed. That knows its 
rider," and "as a weed. Flung from the rock"), the former per- 
haps suggested by the lines in ' The Two Noble Kinsmen ' II, ii, 73 : 

" Oh, never 
Shall we two exercise like twins of Honour 
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses 
Like proud seas under us." 

Byron is one of the great sea-poets of England. See other pas- 
sages in * Childe Harold' (e.g. c. IV, st. clxxix), 'Don Juan' 



322 NOTES 

(The Shipwreck, c, II), 'The Corsair,' 'Siege of Corinth,* 
'The Island,' etc. Cf. Mrs. Wm. Sharp, ed., 'Sea-Music' (Can- 
terbury Poets, 1887). 

52 : V. The concluding lines of the stanza suggest the roman- 
ticist explanation of the poetic impulse. The unhappy man alone, 
excluded from the consolations of the active life, is driven to take 
refuge in the ideal world of the imagination. So Dante, Shelley, 
Byron. But how was it with the conjectural Homer, with Sopho- 
cles, and with Chaucer ? Byron always thought his real vocation 
was not poetry, but heroic action in the world of men. Acting 
partly on this conviction he sacrificed his life in the cause of 
Greek freedom. With this passage on the function of the creative 
imagination compare canto IV, stanzas v-vii. 

53 : vi. The explanation of the poetic impulse continued in 
this stanza is far more adequate. Byron here is writing as an 
idealist and an artist. So in ' The Dream ' he writes (in 1816 
also) : 

" The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh." 

53 : viii. After this lyrical passage of undisguised personal 
confession, the poet turns to Harold, the idealized Byron and hero 
of the poem, and in the next seven stanzas, resuming the thread 
of the story, relates the imaginary state of Harold in the interval 
since we left him at the end of the second canto. 

53 : viii, I. Something too vtiuh of this. Another of the echoes 
of Hamlet with which Byron abounds. Cf. 'Hamlet,' III, ii, 69. 

54 : ix, 3. A purer fount. The inspiration of his travels in 
Greece. 

55 : xiii. Nature, in the sense of Rousseau, conceived as a 
place of solitude, in contrast with society, and a refuge from the 
uncongenial works of men. No longer decorative and pictorial, 
or chiefly interesting for its human or local-historical associations. 
Is there a difference thus between nature in Byron's first two and 
in his last two cantos ? What is the essential difference between 
this and Wordsworth's conception of nature ? 

56 : xvii. The battle of Waterloo had taken place only a year 
before these stanzas were written. 



NOTES 323 

5. The monument (the mound with the Belgian lion) which 
now marks the spot was erected in 1823. 

8. Red rain. Byron's power of metaphor, of condensed and 
penetrating phrase, was never better displa3-ed than in this 
dreadful line : 

" How the red rain hath made the harvest grow ! "' 

57 : xviii, 5. "'Pride of place' is a term of falconry, and 
means highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth.'''' 

[" A falcon towering in her pride of place "]. [Byron's note. 

6. First written by Byron 

"Then tore with bloody beak the fatal plain." 

For this passage an artist, R. R. Reinagle, drew "a pencil- 
sketch of a spirited chained eagle, grasping the earth with his 
talons." When it was sent to Byron he wrote: "Reinagle is a 
better poet and a better ornithologist than I am ; eagles and all 
birds of prey attack with their talons and not with their beaks " ; 
and accordingly altered the line to the form in which it now 
appears. 

The Eagle, of course, is Napoleon. 

9. The chain with which he bound the world is now broken 
and used to fetter him (i.e., Napoleon at St. Helena). 

57 : xix, 5-9. Alluding to the so-called Holy Alliance and its 
reactionary tyranny, against which Byron was the embittered foe 
for the rest of his days. 

57 : XX, 9. B. C. 514, when Harmodius and Aristogeiton con- 
spired against the tyrants Hippias and Hipparchus, and carrying 
swords concealed in myrtle borne in a religious procession, killed 
Hipparchus. 

58 : xxi. The Duchess of Richmond's ball, which took place 
June 15, 1815, on the eve of the Battle of Quatrebras. The Battle 
of Waterloo followed on June 18. 

58 : xxiii. The Duke of Brunswick, nephew of George III, 
killed early in the battle. His father was killed at Auerbach 
(Auerstadt) in 1806. 

59 : xxvi, 1-2. The slogan or rallying-cry of the regiment of 
Cameron Highlanders, whose chieftain was Lochiel, 

Albyn, Gaelic name for Scotland, 



324 NOTES 

9. Sir Evan Cameron (1629-1719), who fought against Crom- 
well, and his grandson Donald Cameron of Lochiel, wounded at 
Culloden, 1746. His great-great-grandson commanded the 92d 
Highlanders and fell in the battle of Quatrebras. 

" And Cameron, in the shock of steel, 
Die, like the offspring of Lochiel." 

(Scott, ' The Field of Waterloo '). 

60 : xxvii, I. '"The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a 
remnant of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's ' Or- 
lando,' and immortal in Shakspeare's 'As You Like It.' It is 
also celebrated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful defence 
by the Germans against the Roman encroachments. I have ven- 
tured to adopt the name connected with nobler associations than 
those of mere slaughter." [Byron's note. 

60 : xxix, 2-9. Major Howard, son of the Earl of Carlisle, 
Byron's unsympathetic guardian, whom the poet had satirized in 
'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' 

62 : XXXV, I. Cf. 'Psalms' xc, 10 : " The days of our age are 
three-score years and ten." 

2. tale^ i.e. reckoning, or number. 

63 : xxxvi. For another estimate of Napoleon, see canto IV, 
sts. Ixxxix-xcii. 

68 : liii, 8. One fond breast. Byron's half-sister Augusta. 

69 : Iv, 9. these absent greetings : The song which follows, 
addressed to Byron's sister, was wrttten on the banks of the Rhine, 
May II, 18 16. 

69 : Song, I. The castle of Drachenfels stands on one of the 
summits of the Siebengebirge, on the right bank of the Rhine, 
above Bonn. 

From this point the conventional figure of Childe Harold is 
dropped until near the very end of canto IV. 

71 : Ivi-lvii. General Hoche and General Marceau, both 
leaders of the army of the young republic of France, were buried 
here in the same grave (i796-'97). Marceau took part in sup- 
pressing the insurrection of the Vendue ("the charter to chas- 
tise "). 

71 : Iviii. Ehrenbreitstein, a fortress on the heights opposite 
Coblenz, taken by the French in 1799, after a prolonged siege, 



NOTES 325 

the fortifications being destroyed in 180 1, after the peace of 
Luneville. 

73 : Ixiii, 3. Morat-Murten, near Lake Neuchatel, where the 
army of the Duke of Burgundy was defeated by the patriot Swiss 
in 1476, leaving twenty thousand slain upon the field of battle. 
The bones were afterwards collected and heaped up under the 
roof of an ossuary, built to contain them, where they remained 
till the present century. 

74 : Ixv. '* Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands " [Byron's note. 

74 : Ixvi. ''Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died 
soon after a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to death 
as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was discovered many 
years ago. It is thus: 'Julia Alpinula: Hie jaceo. Infelicis 
patris infelix proles. Dese Aventise Sacerdos. Exorare patris 
necem non potui : Male mori in f^tis ille erat. Vixi annos xxiii.' 
I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of 
deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought 
not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy ten- 
derness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused 
mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for 
a time to a false and feverish sympathy. . . . [Byron's note. 

Since Byron wrote these lines it has been discovered that this 
inscription was a sixteenth century fabrication. 

75 : Ixx, 8. IVanderers o'er Eternity. This probably sug- 
gested to Shelley the phrase of " The Pilgrim of Eternity," which 
he applies to Byron in his ' Adonais'. 

76 : Ixxii, 1-3. Here Byron shows the unmistakable influence 
of Wordsworth's ideas and phrasing. Cf. ' Tintern Abbey ' : 

" The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours, and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling, and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm." 

— But is the rest of the passage in Byron Wordsworthian ? 

1-2. I become portion of that around me. Cf. Tennyson's 
' Ulysses ' : 

" I am a part of all that I have met," 



326 NOTES 

77 : Ixxiv. There is a strain of Calvinism in Byron's belief. 
In this portion of the poem, as elsewhere, the idea of predestinate 
sin and fate is with him. In the spirit of mediaeval asceticism he 
is for despising the carnal life xvl this degraded form. Here, of 
course, it is mainly the poetic yearning for imion with the sub- 
lime and beautiful in Nature. Cf. Canto IV, st. xxxiv (on pre- 
destination). 

77 : Ixxvi ff. Rousseau was born at Geneva, 1712. Died 1778. 
In spite of Byron's denial there were many points in common 
between himself and Rousseau. Byron too is a self-torturing 
apostle of Affliction. Both are in revolt and extreme advocates of 
individualism and of liberty. Their morbid vanity, mobility, and 
love of fame were in common. Rousseau's summary in his ' Con- 
fessions ' of his own feminine and unstable character, "qui . . . m'a 
jusqu'au bout mis en contradiction avec moi-meme, et a fait que 
I'abstinence et la jouissance, leiplaisir et la sagesse, m'ont egale- 
ment echappe " might apply equally well to Byron, as Elze says 
(* Life of Byron,' p. 349). But Byron the poet was not in the least 
the sort of a sentimentalist that Rousseau, both the writer and the 
man, was. Cf. Schmidt, * Rousseau und Byron ' (Oppeln und Leip- 
zig, 1890). 

78 : Ixxix I. Julie and St.-Preux are the two lovers whose 
story is related in Rousseau's novel of 'La Nouvelle Heloise,' 
the scene of which is chiefly near Lake Geneva^ 

3-9. "This refers to the account in [Rousseau's] Confessions^ 
of his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdelot (the mistress of St. 
Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sake of the 
single kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaint- 
ance. . . " [Byron's note. 

79 : Ixxxii, 2-3. The meaning is, the old opinions were things 
which had been growing up ever since the birth of Time, being 
received by men like the air they breathed. 

81 : Ixxxvi-lxxxvii. A remarkable piece of idyllic descriptive 
poetry, quieter and finished with more perfection in the parts than 
is usual with Byron. It is harmonious throughout, and is worthy 
of lingering study. What elements in the description would the 
painter, trying to reproduce the scene, have to leave out ? Might 
the musician more adequately reproduce the motive ? 

-- — J^or more of the poetry of the grasshopper, see the sonnets on 



NOTES 327 

the 'Grasshopper and Cricket,' by Keats and Leigh Hunt; Love- 
lace's poem on 'The Grasshopper;* Meleager's * To a Locust' 
(W. M. Hardinge's transhition in Tomson s ' Selections from the 
Greek Anthology,' Canterbury Poets, p. 171); and Anacreon's 
Ode xxxiv (Moore's Translation). 

82 : Ixxxix. Cf. Wordsworth's Sonnet, beginning : 

" It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a nun 
Breathless with adoration." 

82 : xci. Cf. Wordsworth's 'Excursion,' bk. IV: 

" The Persian — zealous to reject 
Altar and imajje, and the inclusive walls 
And roofs of temples built by human hands — 
To loftiest heights ascending-, from their tops. 
With myrtle-wreathed tiara on liis brow, 
Presented sacrifice to moon and stars. 
And to the winds and mother elements, 
And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 
A sensitive existence and a god." 

— Cf. ' Manfred 'III, ii. (above, p. 204). 

83 : xciv. This image is obviously borrowed from Coleridge's 
'Christabel' ii, 408-426, a poem which Byron greatly admired: 

" They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
ohall wholly do away, I ween. 
The marks of that v.hich once hath been." 

84 : xcvii. This stanza is the climax towards which the pre- 
ceding ones, descriptive of the storm, have been mounting. With- 
out much paradox it may be called the most essentially Byronic 
thing in all Byron ! 

85 : xcix. Part of the scene of Rousseau's ' La Nouvelle He- 
lolse ' is laid at Clarens and Vevey. In July 18 16 Byron made a 
voyage around the Lake of Geneva in company with Shelley, 
whose influence he so deeply felt during this period of his career, 
as this and the following stanzas so unmistakably show. In a 
note to this passage Byron writes: "The feeling with which all 



328 NOTES 

around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is 
of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere 
sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of 
love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own 
participation of its good and of its glory: it is the great principle 
of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less mani- 
fested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose 
our individuality and mingle in the beauty of the whole." 

87 : cv, 2. Voltaire, who lived at Ferney; and Gibbon, who 
finished his famous history at Lausanne in 1787. "These verses 
of Byron are the quintessence of criticism on Gibbon and Vol- 
taire." (Nichol.) 

91 : cxvii. "In accordance with the heartless and tyrannical 
directions of her grandmother, Ada was kept in entire ignorance 
of her father. By the direction of Lady Noel's will, Ada was not 
to see the portrait of her father till she had attained her twenty- 
first year. . . . Till within a short period before her death she 
knew nothing of his works. Of the way in which Ada became 
acquainted with the poetry of her father, the Countess Guiccioli 
gives the following account, tinged, it must be admitted, with the 
hues of romance. Colonel Wildman [owner of Newstead], who 
had become acquainted with Lady Lovelace [Ada Byron married 
the Earl of Lovelace in 1835] in London, invited her to Newstead, 
an invitation which she accepted about a year and a quarter before 
her death. One day in the library of Newstead, the Colonel read 
to her some verses, with the beauty of which she was enchanted ; 
when she asked him who was the author, the Colonel answered 
by pointing to the portrait of her father by Phillips, hanging on 
the wall. She was stunned by the discovery, and from that 
moment a revolution took place in her feelings towards her father. 
Shutting herself up in the rooms her father had occupied, she 
devoted herself to the study of his works, and learnt from them 
that love for herself which had hitherto been so carefully concealed 
from her. On her return to London she became seriously ill, 
and, feeling her end drawing near, she prayed the Colonel to allow 
her to be buried by her father" s side in the church of Hucknall- 
Torkard, a request which was of course at once granted. She 
died November 27, 1852." [Elze's 'Life of Byron,' 327-8. 



NOTES 329 



CANTO IV 



Begun June 26, 1817; finished, in first draft of 126 stanzas, 
July 20, 1817. Other stanzas were added from time to time until 
the publication of the whole, April 28, 1818. 

As the influence of Shelley's idealism and apotheosis of love, 
and of Wordsworth's feeling for nature, is traceable in Canto III, 
so in Canto IV the influence is felt of the artistic and historical 
studies of Byron's lifelong friend and present travelling companion, 
Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton), who directly suggested 
the subjects of many of the stanzas to the poet, who wrote copious 
Historical Illustrations to accompany the first edition, and to whom 
the canto was dedicated. Of the canto Byron wrote to Murray 
that it differs from its predecessors in that '' it treats more of works 
of art than of nature," and "there are no metaphysics in it — at 
least, I think not." "I have parted company with Shelley and 
Wordsworth. Subject-matter and treatment are alike new. " And 
in the Dedication to Hobhouse he adds : "With regard to the 
conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim 
than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, sep- 
arated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, 
that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one 
seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in Goldsmith's 
'Citizen of the World,' whom nobody would believe to be a 
Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I had 
drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and the 
very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at 
finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, 
that I determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so." 

92 : i. The canto plunges in viedias ;vj with neither invocation 
nor personal introduction. 

93 : iii, 1-2. "The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the independ- 
ence of Venice " (Hobhouse). — Venice lost her independence in 
1797, when, too, the office of Doge was abolished (st. iv, 1. 4). 

On the subject of the departed glories of Venice, cf. Words- 
worth's 'Sonnet on the Extinction of the Venetian Republic* 



330 NOTES 

Cf. also Spenser's sonnet 'The antique Babel, Empresse of the 
East,' with its exquisite line : 

" Fayre Venice, flower of the last world's delight." 

93 : iv, 6-7. The allusions are to Shakspere's * Merchant of 
Venice' and 'Othello,' and to Otway's 'Venice Preserved' 
(1682), in which Pierre is the chief character. 

95 : X, 5. The answer made by the mother of Brasidas, the 
Spartan general, to those who praised the memory of her son. 

95 : xi, 1-4. Alluding to the former annual custom at Venice 
for the Doge to go out to the Adriatic in the state galley ' Bucen- 
taur,' and S3anbolically wed the sea by throwing into it a ring, in 
token of Venice's maritime supremacy. 

5. The winged lion which stands on top of a column in the 
Piazzeta, transported to Paris by order of Napoleon, was after- 
wards restored. 

7. Here in 1177 the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa ("the 
Suabian " of st. xii, 1. i . ) after attempting to assert the rights of the 
empire as against the papacy, and being defeated in his invasion 
of Lombardy in 11 76, made his submission to the Pope, Alexan- 
der III. 

96 : xii, 7. Lauwine, or Lawine, German for avalanche. 

8. Henry Dandolo, Doge from 1192 to 1205, led the Venetians 
at the taking of Constantinople in 1204, being then aged 97 and 
blind ! 

96 : xiii, 3. The legend was that when the Venetians, over- 
come in war by the Genoese in 1379, begged for any terms saving 
their independence, Peter Doria answered that they should have 
no peace "until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled 
horses of yours." 

5. The early history of Venice is involved in obscurity, but 
the city was founded probably in the fifth century. 

96 : xiv, 3. " That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of 
the republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon— Pianta- 
leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon." [Byron's note. — The etymology, 
however, is said to be very doubtful. The nickname of "Panta- 
loni," generally applied to the Venetians, more probably comes 
from one of their patron saints, St. Pantaleon {VavT€Ker,^l(l}v, the 
all-pitiful). — Sprung from Victory, alluding to the custom of 



NOTES 331 

planting the standard wherever their conquests and commerce 
extended. 

7. Candia, in Crete, defended against the Turks by the Vene- 
tians for twenty-five years (1644-1669), as compared with the ten 
years of the siege of Troy. 

8. Lepanto, the great naval battle in 15 71, in which the 
•Venetians and their allies defeated the Turks. 

97 : xvi. Alluding to the story that some of the Athenian 
prisoners in Sicily who were able to recite portions of Euripides 
were released by their masters, so great was their admiration for 
that poet. Cf. Plutarch, ' Life of Nicias,' 

97 : xvii, 6. Thy lot is shameful to the tiations : Who, by the 
Treaty of Paris, 18 14, permitted Venice to fall back into the 
hands of Austria. 

98 : xviii, 5. For Otway and Shakspere see note to iv, 6-7, 
above. Venice is the scene of Mrs. Radcliffe's 'Mysteries of 
Udolpho,' 1794, and of Schiller's 'Die Geisterseher.' "This 
[the Doge's Palace] was the thing that most struck my imagina- 
tion in Venice, — more than the Rialto, which I visited for the 
sake of Shylock; and more, too, than Schiller's Armenian, a 
novel which took a great hold on me when a boy. It is also 
called the Ghost- Seer, and I never walked down St. Marks by 
moonlight without thinking of it, and ' at nine o'clock he died ! ' " 
(Byron's Letter to Murray of April 2, 1817). A translation of 
Schiller's romance had appeared in London in 1795. Also in 
1800. 

98 : XX, I. Tannen, German for 'fir-trees.' 

99 : xxiii, 6-9. E. H. Coleridge cites appositely here from 
Browning's 'Bishop Blougram's Apology': 

** Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, 
A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, 
A chorus-ending from Euripides, — 
And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears . . . 
To rap and knock and enter in our soul." 

Notice the elaborately designed contrast and remoteness of 
Browning's particulars as compared with the typical simplicity 
of Byron's. Two radically different schools of art ! 

lOI : xxvii. "The above description may seem fantastical or 



332 NOTES 

exaggerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an 
Italian sky; yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient delineation 
of an August evening (the eighteenth), as contemplated in one of 
many rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira " 
[Byron's note. 

— La Mira, on the Brenta, is six or seven miles above the point 
vv^here the river enters the lagoon opposite Venice. 

The similar but more elaborate description of the sunset seen 
from the Lido by Shelley and Byron, beginning, 

•' Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight," 

near the beginning of Shelley's ' Julian and Maddalo ' should be 
compared with these stanzas. Compare also the brief sunset 
passage 

(" Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon ") 

near the end of Shelley's ' Lines Written among the Euganean 
Hills,' where Byron's detail of the moon and her single star also 
appears. What are the features peculiar in each case to Shelley 
and to Byron in the spirit and technique of these allied pas- 
sages ? 

4. FriulVs mountains are properly the Alps to the north-east 
of Venice and so not in line between the poet and the sun setting 
in the west. But probably Byron is describing the afterglow or 
reflection of the sunset in the northern and eastern sky. — What 
devices, denied to the art of painting, does the poet use in con- 
structing his sunset picture? 

102 : XXX, 3. Laura's lover. Petrarch. 

7. Alluding to his advocacy of the cause of Italian liberty in 
his Odes to Rienzi and others. 

8. The tree is the laurel, the emblem of fame, — her name 
Laura; the play of words appears in Petrarch's own poetry. 

103 : XXXV, 9. Alfonso I of Este (d. 1534) was a patron of 
Ariosto. Alfonso II (d. 1597) was first patron and then tyrant 
to Tasso. See Byron's 'Lament of Tasso,' and Goethe's drama 
of ' Tasso. ' Tasso was confined as a lunatic in a narrow cell 
and subjected to abuses for several years by Alfonso, — according 
to the legend because he had dared to love the Duke's sister, but 



NOTES 333 

in reality rather because of his extravagant conduct and of his 
political intrigues with rival powers. 

104 : xxxviii, 6. The Cruscaft quire [choir]. The Accademia 
della Crusca, established at Florence in 1582, which passed 
severe critical censure on Tasso's great poem of the ' Gerusa- 
lemme Libera ta.' 

7-9. "Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates Tasso 
may serve as well as any other specimen to justify the opinion 
given of the harmony of French verse — 

' A Malherbe, a Racan, prefere Theophile, 
Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout Tor de Virgile.' " 

[Hobhouse's note. 

It must be remembered, in palliation, that Byron's censure on 
the ''creaking lyre " of France was passed upon French verse of 
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries only. 

105 : xl. Dante and Ariosto are celebrated in this stanza, — 
with an incidental compliment to Sir Walter Scott. 

9. Ariosto's themes are announced in the opening lines of his 
* Orlando Furioso ' : 

" Le Donne, i Cavalier', I'arme, gli amori, 
Le cortesie, I'audaci imprese io canto." 

105 : xli, I. '* Before the remains of Ariosto were removed [in 
1759] from the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his 
bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and a 
crown of iron laurels melted away." [Hobhouse's note. 

106 : xlii. "The two stanzas xlii and xliii are, with the 
exception of a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of 
Filicaja : 

' Italia, Italia, o tu, cui die la sorte 
Dono infelice di bellezza, end' hai 
Funesta dote d' infiniti guai, 
Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte: 

Deh ! fossi tu men bella, o almen piil forte; 
Onde assai piu ti paventasse, o assai 
T' amasse men, chi del tuo bello ai rai 
Par che si strugga, e pur ti sfida a morte. 

Ch'or gill dair Alpi non vedrei torrenti 
Scender d' armati, e del tuo sangue tinta 



334 NOTES 

Bever 1' onda del Po gallici arttienti ; 
Ne te vedrei del non tuo ferro cinta 

Pugnar col braccio di straniere genti, 
Per servir sempre, o vincitrice, o vinta.' " 

[Byron's note. 

106 : xliv. "The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, 
on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and now 
is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and land, 
in different journeys and voyages : — 'On my return from Asia, 
as I was sailing from y^gina towards Megara, I began to contem- 
plate the prospect of the countries around me : yEgina was behind, 
Megara before me ; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the left ; all 
which towns, once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned 
and buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
presently within myself, Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and 
vex ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, 
whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble 
cities lie here exposed before me in one view.' — See Middleton's 
Cicero, 1823, vol. ii, p. 144." [Byron's note. 

107 : xlvi, 8. "It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline 
hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, * Ut 
nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jaceat, instar gigantei cada- 
veris corrupti atque undique exesi.' " [Byron's note. 

108 : xlix, I. The statue of Venus de' Medici, standing in the 
" Tribune " of the Uffizzi Gallery at Florence. 

108 : 1, 2. Drunk 7vith beauty. " I went to the two galleries, 
from which one returns drunk with beauty." [Pjyron^ in letter to 
Murray, Apr. 26, 18 17. 

109 : li, 3-7. These lines are apparently a paraphrase of 
Lucretius, 'De Rerum Natura,' I, 33 fif. 

" Mavors 
Armipotens regit, in gremium qui saepe tuum se," etc. 

" [Mavors, who often flings himself into thy lap quite van- 
quished by the never-healing wound of love ; and then with 
upturned face and shapely neck thrown back feeds with love his 
greedy sight, gazing, goddess, open-mouthed on thee ; and as 
backward he reclines, his breath stays hanging on thy lips" 
(Munro's Translation). 



l\roTES 335 

110 : liv. " The church of Santa Croce contains much illustri- 
ous nothing. The tombs of Macchiavelli, Michael Angelo, Gali- 
leo Galilei, and Aifieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of Italy. " 
(Byron, in Letter to Murray, April 26, 18 17.) 

HI : Ivii. Dante was buried at Ravenna, which lies not far 
from the Adriatic. 

2. Scipio Africanus the Elder spent his last years in voluntary 
exile from Rome, at Liternum on the coast of Campania. " Folk 
say that when he came to die he gave orders that he should be 
buried on the spot, and that there, and not at Rome, a monument 
should be raised over his sepulchre. His country had been 
ungrateful — no Roman funeral for him." (Livy, bk. xxxviii, 
ch. 53.) 

7-9. Petrarch, though of Florentine parentage, was not born at 
Florence, his father being banished thence two years before the 
birth of his son. Petrarch was given the laurel crown at Rome in 
1341. His grave at Arquawas rifled in 1630. 

111 : Iviii. Boccaccio, born in 13 13, perhaps at Certaldo (lying 
between Florence and Siena), died and was buried therein 1375. 
His tomb in the church of ' La Canonica ' was removed by the 
clerics some time after 1783 and his bones scattered. Boccaccio 
had frequently satirized the monks and the abuses of the Church. 

111 : lix, 3-4 The bust of Brutus, because he had taken part 
in the murder of Julius Caesar, was not permitted in the pageant 
of Tiberius Caesar. 

112 :lx. "I also went to the Medici chapel [part of the 
Church of San Lorenzo at Florence] — fine frippery in great slabs 
of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty rotten and for- 
gotten carcasses. It is unfinished and will remain so." (Byron, 
Letter to Murray, April 26, 1817.) 

II2:lxi. It is possible that Byron may mean by "Arno's 
dome " the Duomoor Cathedral at Florence with its works of art, 
as Mr. E. H. Coleridge infers; but the reference to *' Art in gal- 
leries " makes it probable that '* dome " is used for any large 
building, as in Canto I, st. xlv, and here means the Uffizi gallery. 

112 ; Ixii-lxiv. Thrasiviene, where Hannibal entrapped and 
overcame the Roman army, B. C. 217. The incident of the 
earthquake is recorded by Livy, bk. xxii, ch. 5. 

113 : Ixv, 8. "From the Gualandro two small brooks fall 



33^ ^OTES 

into the lake. One of these, crossed by the road, has been named 
Sanguinetto in reminiscence of the streams of blood with which it 
was once discolored." (Baedeker's 'Central Italy.') 

Ii5:lxix. The waterfall of Terni, formed by the Velino, a 
tributary of the Tiber. 

5. "The fall looks so much like 'the Hell of Waters, ' that 
Addison thought the descent alluded to by the gulf in which 
Alecto [in Virgil, '.^neid,' VII, 563] plunged into the infernal re- 
gions." [Byron's note. 

116: Ixxiii, 5. Lauwine, avalanche, as in st. xii, 1. 7, above. The 
proper plural form is Latiwinen. 

7. Nei'er-trodden, hence Jungfrau, or "virgin" mountain. 

116 : Ixxiii, 9, and Ixxiv, i. Acroceranniati, from aKpos, extreme, 
elevated, pointed, and Kepawos, thunderbolt. Hence Thunder- 
Hills. 

116: Ixxiv, 5. tuith a Trojans eye, i.e., from the plain of 
Troy. 

8-9. Horace, Odes I, ix, i: 

" Vides ut alta stet nive candidum 

Soracte." 
" Behold yon mountain's hoary height 

Made higher with new mounts of snow," etc. 

(Dryden's translation.) 

117 : Ixxv, 7. "I wish to express, that we become tired of the 
task before we can comprehend the beauty ; that we learn by rote 
before we can get by heart; that the freshness is worn away, and 
the future pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by 
the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither feel nor 
understand the power of compositions which it requires an 
acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to 
reason upon." [From Byron's note. 

118 : Ixxix. The Scipios' Tomb, near the Appian way, was 
discovered in 1780. Bones were found in some of the chambers 
but were soon dispersed. 

118 : Ixxx, 5. Where formerly the chariot of victorious Roman 
generals had ascended the Capitoline hill in triumphal procession. 

118: Ixxx ff. Compare with this lament over the grandeur 
that was Rome the poem on the same theme ('The Ruines of 
Rome •) paraphrased from du Bellay by Spenser. See especially 



NOTES 337 

St. iii (Works of Spenser, Globe edition, p. 526). Here again 
the spirit of the nineteenth century unconsciously touches that of 
the sixteenth. 

1 19 : Ixxxiii. Sulla, who received the title of Felix in 81 B.C., 
attacked in his power at home by Marius, refused to return to 
Italy until he had conquered Mithridates. He became dictator 
in 81 B. C. and in 79 resigned his power and retired into private 
life. 

120 : Ixxxv, 3. 'Dissolved the Long Parliament; and brought 
Charles I to the block.' 

8-9. "On the 3d of September [1650] Cromwell gained the 
victory of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained 'his crowning 
mercy ' of Worcester; and a few years after [1658] on the same 
day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate lor him, 
died." [Byron's note. 

121 : Ixxxvii, i. The statue of Pompey, discovered in 1550, is 
"yet existent " in the Palazzo Spada at Rome. It is possibly 
but quite uncertainly the one at whose base " great Caesar fell." 
Cf. Shakspere's 'Julius Caesar,' III, ii, 192-3. 

9. puppets of a Scene, i.e., mere playthings of fate. 

121 : Ixxxviii. Alluding to the ancient bronze of the 'Capito- 
line Wolf,' still preserved in the Capitol (Palace of the Conserva- 
tori) at Rome; because of an injury on the right hind-leg hypo- 
thetically identified with the figure which, according to Cicero's 
third Catiline Oration, ch. viii, was struck by lightning B. C. 65. 

121 : Ixxxix, 4. 'Men of later times, imitating the arms of 
Rome ("the things they feared"), have fought and bled.' 

8. one vain man. Napoleon. 

122 : xcii-xcviii. Listening to this trumpet-call of human lib- 
erty, it is easy to comprehend the immense influence which Byron 
exercised among the half-emancipated nations of Europe during 
the long years of reaction from the French Revolution and of 
renewed struggle for freedom. For a discussion of the nature 
and extent of this influence see Elze's ' Life of Byron ' (Lond. 
1872), 423-432. 

124 : xcvii, 7. the base pageant. The Congress of Vienna, 
September, 1815, the Holy Alliance ("an alliance for the protec- 
tion of absolute monarchy "), and the second Treaty of Paris, all 
in the same year (E. H. Coleridge). 



33^ NOTES 

125 : xcix. The tomb of Caecilia Metella, on the Via Appia, 
"a circular structure, 65 feet in diameter," on a square pedestal. 
''In the thirteenth century the Gaetani converted the edifice into 
the tower of a stronghold, and furnished it with pinnacles." 
(Baedeker's 'Central Italy.') 

126: cii, 8. Hesperus^ the star which leads the way to 'the 
silent land ' (Tozer). 

9. consuming cheek. Cheek wasting with consumption. Cf. 
« Manfred ' II, iv ; 

" There's a bloom upon her cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red, 
Which Autumn plants upon the perished leaf." 

126 : ciii, 9. She was the wife of Crassus, because of his 
wealth called Dives. 

128 : cix. The goldefi roofs of Nero's Domiis Aurea adjoining 
the Palatine, a palace "overlaid with plates of gold, picked out 
with gems and mother-of-pearl." 

128 : ex, 2. A solitary column in the Forum, now named the 
Column of Phocas. 

6. The Statue of St. Peter (the apostle) now surmounts the 
column of Trajan, displacing the statue of Trajan, which formerly 
held a globe supposed to contain his ashes; that of St. Paul sur- 
mounts the coluni'.i of Aurelius. 

129 : cxi, 8. Alexander, excited with wine at a banquet, killed 
his friend Clitus. 

129: cxii, I. The Capitoline Hill, where the triumphal pro- 
cessions ended. 

129 : cxiii, 9. ' Orators who sold their services; ' hence ' baser ' 
than real prostitutes. 

130 : cxiv. Rienzi, opposing the tyranny of the great nobles, 
was proclaimed Tribune in 1347, and was slain in 1354 during a 
revolt against his rule. See Bulwer-Lytton's ' Rienzi, The Last 
of the Tribunes.' 

130 : cxv. Egeria, the nymph who counselled Numa, the 
ancient Roman lawgiver, who was fabled to have been her lover. 
Her fountain and grotto were placed beyond the Sebastian gate in 
Byron's day. They are now thought to be near the Metronian gate. 



NOTES 339 

133: cxxiii, 7. Cf. 'Hosea' viii, 7: " For they have sown the 
wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind." 

134 : cxxvii, 5. Cf. Wordsworth, 'Excursion,' bk. I: 

" The vision, and the faculty divine." 

6. Cf. Macbeth III, iv, 24-25 : 

But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in 
To saucy doubts and fears." 

9. couch, to prepare the eye for removing a cataract. 

135 : cxxxi, I. this wreck. The Coliseum. 

135 : cxxxi ff. Personal stanzas, alluding to the wrongs Byron 
thought he had suffered from his wife and her family, and the 
public who sympathized with them and turned against him. 

136 : cxxxiii, 8. for the sake — Are we to supply in thought, 
of my sister ? 

137 : cxxxv. Whatever reservation in other respects the reader 
may feel it necessary to make, he cannot but admire the astomsh- 
ing rhetorical art and the fierce lyrical passion and pride of these 
lines. 

138 : cxl-cxli. The famous statute of the ' Dying Gladiator ' in 
the Museum of the Capitol at Rome; more probably a Dying 
Gaul. 

139: cxlii, 5-6. ''When one gladiator wounded another, he 
shouted, 'He has it,' 'Hoc habet,' or 'Habet.' The wounded 
combatant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the edge of 
the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the 
people saved him, if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, 
they turned down their thumbs, and he was slain." [Hobhouse's 
note. 

140: cxliv. Cf. 'Manfred' III, iv, 10 ff. (above, p. 207). 

140 : cxlv. 1-2. "This is quoted [from Bede] in [Gibbon's] 
' Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ' as a proof that the 
Coliseum was entire, when seen by the Anglo Saxon pilgrims at 
the end of the seventh, or the beginning of the eighth, century." 
[Byron's note. 

The original is: " Quamdiu stabit Colyseus, stabit et Roma; 
quando cadet Colyseus, cadet Roma; quando cadet Roma, cadet 
et mundus." 

141 : cxlviii-cli. The version of the legend from Festus is as 



34^ NOTES 

follows: *'It is said that ^lius dedicated a temple to Pietas on 
the very spot where a woman dwelt of yore. Her father was shut 
up in prison, and she kept him alive by giving him the breast by 
stealth ; and, as a reward for her deed, obtained forgiveness and 
freedom for him." 

142 : cli. The 'fable ' is that Hercules after his birth was put 
to Hera's (Juno's) breast, while she was asleep, that he might 
drink in divinity, but that awaking she pushed him away, and 
that the drops thus spilled fell upon the sky and became the Milky 
Way. 

142: clii, I. the Mole. The castle of St. Angelo; not really 
built in imitation of the pyramids, although like them in its mass 
and size. 

143 : cliii, I. the Dome. Of St. Peter's. 
2. The temple of Diana at Epiiesus. 

7. The mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople. 

144 : clvi, I. but increasing. Elliptical. Supply, to read — 
**but it is increasing." 

145 : clxi, I. The statute of the Apollo Belvedere. 

146 : clxii, 1-4. An incident of a French maiden's going mad 
for love of the statute of Apollo had been related and was utilized 
in a poem of 1812, by Milman, which Byron probably knew: 

" Yet on that form in wild delirious trance 
With more than revVence gazed the Maid of France. 
Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood 
With him alone, nor thought it solitude I 
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care. 
Her one fond hope — to perish of despair." 

146 : clxiii, 2. the fire which we endure : i.e. life, or the soul. 

147 : clxvii-clxxii. On the death, in childbirth, November 6, 
181 7, of the Princess Charlotte, only daughter of the Prince Regent 
(afterwards George IV), married to Prince Leopold of Saxe- 
Coburg. Her death was felt as a national calamity. If the child 
had lived it might in time have ascended the English throne. 
Cf. Byron's Letter to Murray of December 3, 181 7. 

T49 : clxxi, 7. "Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V a hermit; Louis XIV a bankrupt in means and 
glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, 'the greatest is behind,* 



NOTES 34^ 

Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but super- 
fluous list might be added of names equally illustrious and un- 
happy." [Byron's note, 

150 : clxxiv, 7. Tully reposed: at Tusculum. 

9. Horace's Sabine farm, twenty miles to the north-east. 

150 : clxxv, 8. Calpe's rock. Gibraltar: in 181 1. 

150 : clxxvi, I. Symplegades : two small islands near the en- 
trance to the Black Sea. 

152 : clxxxi, 9. The fleet of the Armada (1588) was destroyed 
partly by tempests, partly by the English fleet. 

' ' The gale of wind which succeeded the battle of Trafalgar 
[October 21, 1805] destroyed the greater part, if not all, of the 
prizes — nineteen sail of t'.ie line — taken on that memorable day." 
[Byron's note. 

153 : clxxxiv, 9. as I do here. As if written while sailing 
upon the sea. 

154: clxxxvi, 7. Emblems of pilgrims. Cf. 'Hamlet' IV, 
V, 23: 

" How should I your true love know 
From another one? 
By his cockle hat and staff, 
And his sandal shoon." 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

Written, June 1816, at Ouchy near Lausanne in Switzerland, 
and published at Ix^ndon, December 5th, 1816. 

The Bonivard of the poem is essentially a creation of the im- 
agination and not a historical figure. The poet himself admitted 
this fact in his notes: "When this poem was composed, I was 
not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonivard." The historical 
Bonivard (1493-1570), a lover of republican liberty and a relig- 
ious reformer, because of his opposition to the rule of the House 
of Savoy was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy at Chillon from 
1530 to 1536, when, in the war of liberation of the cantons of 
Geneva and Vaud, the castle was captured by the republican 
forces and Bonivard and other prisoners were liberated. The 
circumstance of the imprisonment and death of the brothers is en- 
tirely of Byron's invention. In his own Memoirs Bonivard testi- 



342 NOTES 

fies that he was confined in a dungeon, "the bottom of which was 
lower than the lake on which Chillon was situated, where I re- 
mained four years [two had been spent in better quarters] and 
had such good leisure to promenade that I wore a path in the 
rock which was the floor of the place just as if it had been made 
with a hammer." Most unromantic of all the contradictions 
which history presents to the poem, Bonivard's interest in life 
after his release was so lively that he was four times married ! 
He was, however, an idealist and a scholar. D'Aubign6, in his 
' History of the Reformation ' compares him to Erasmus and says 
that Bonivard "was, like him, a lover of letters and of liberty 
more than the former. He was to Geneva the man of the Re- 
naissance as Calvin was the man of the Reformation." The Boni- 
vard of the poem, however, is really an idealized Byron— Byron 
at the best period of his career, when he was most open to the in- 
fluences of Rousseau, Scott, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Coleridge 
(influences to which this poem bears witness), and imagined in 
circumstances to evoke the deepest tenderness, pathos, sympathy 
with liberty and with human suffering, and meditative melan- 
choly, latent in the poet's nature. 

Professor Kolbing has suggested that probably the chief source 
from which Byron drew his scanty knowledge of Bonivard was 
the following passage from Rousseau's 'Nouvelle Heloise,' a book 
which Byron and Shelley had been reading together during their 
journey around the lake: "The castle of Chillon, formerly a 
dwelling of the lords of Vevey, is situated in the lake on a rock 
which forms a little peninsula, and around which I have seen 
soundings taken more than a hundred and fifty fathoms deep, 
which amounts to nearly eight hundred feet, without reaching 
the bottom. Cellars and kitchens have been excavated in this 
rock below the level of the water, which is let in by valves when 
desired. Here was imprisoned for six years Frangois Bonnivard, 
Prior of Saint-Victor, a man of rare merit, of unbending upright- 
ness and fortitude, a friend of liberty, although a Savoyard, and 
tolerant, although a priest." 

The situation and much in the tone of the narration of the poem 
suggest the story of Ugolino and his sons in Dante (Inferno, 
xxxii, 124-xxxiii, 78). According to Medwin Shelley remarked 
that "Byron had deeply studied this death of Ugolino, and per- 



NOTES 343 

haps but for it 'would never liave written the Prisoner of 
Chillon.' " 

Writing, as he always wrote, at white heat, and in the manner 
of improvisation (the composition of this poem look two days), 
Byron has yet produced here a masterpiece both in structur:; c"i^ 
in style. The poet's theme is to depict the psychology of the 
prisoner, — a political prisoner, noble-minded and innocent of 
crime. There is very little action ; there is very little ornament ; 
the narrative evolves from within, and is presented with high 
dramatic fidelity, and with subtle gradation and progression. The 
situation in itself is bare and simple ; the art with which the poet 
developes it is masterly. Who else, except Dante perhaps, as in 
the Ugolino episode, could do so much with so little ? Note how 
touch is added to touch in just the right order in the building up 
of the poem. The irregular stanzas or verse paragraphs are the 
units of structure. The first stanza is introductory, presenting 
the personages of the poem and centering the interest in Boni- 
vard, the narrator; in II is the Scene (the Dungeon), and, to fix 
our interest, a glance forward at the psychological state of the 
prisoner after all is over : how this state came about is the sub- 
ject of the poem ; III presents the details of the situation of the 
three brothers in prison, and the first effect of confinement ( ' ' But 
even these at length grew cold"j; IV and V tell of the younger 
and the middle brother, two types of character, both ill-adapted 
to endure such a fate (effect of pathos through contrast ; the cen- 
tral character heightened through picture of his devotion to 
them) ; VI the Place again, remote and scanty echoes of free Na- 
ture emphasizing by contrast their situation ; VII death of the 
middle brother ; his burial, and the effect of this on the mind of 
Bonivard suggested ; VIII death of the younger brother, and 
emotional climax of the poem ; a passage of pure pathos ; Dan- 
tean touch (''I found him not") ; IX effect on the Prisoner ; re- 
action of apathy ; X reaction of life ; revival to feeling for na- 
ture ; exquisite touch in the incident of the bird;* XI ameliora- 
tion ; XII life renewed, but with a difference ; Nature the re- 

* Cf. the similar situation and device in Coleridge's ' Ancient Mari- 
ner' ; the Mariner's mental state, 11. 244 f. ; and the awakening of his 
soul throu<ih the influence of the water-snakes, 11. 272 f., and of the 
sky-lark, I, 359. 



344 NOTES 

storer; XIV liberation : subdued ending in the manner of 
Wordsworth (diminuendo). The poem is one of pathos merely, 
in the primary sense of the term. The characters suffer, but do 
not act. Consequently the treatment, as here given, must be 
qiiasi-lyrical (dramatic monologue) and brief. Even thus, as Sir 
Walter Scott wrote, the poem is more powerful than pleasing. 
The form and style are in admirable keeping with the subject : 
vigorous octosyllabics (four-stress couplets) with frequent varia- 
tions (contrast the more softly melodious movement of Cole- 
ridge's ' Christabel ') ; little imagery, and that closely directed to 
enforcing the emotional effect; otherwise straightforward realistic 
speech with no surplusage. Compare the narrative manner of 
* Mazeppa.' 

What is the effect in each case of the various departures from 
the couplet rhyme in the poem ? from the regular iambic flow of 
the rhythm ? Why are certain lines of two and three feet in- 
stead of four ? Is the alliteration employed artistic and effective ? 

155 : Sonnet on Chillon, 2-4. The general meaning is made 
clearer in the first version of these lines : 

" Brightest in dungeons, Liberty 1 thou art, 
Thy palace is within the Freeman's heart, 
Whose soul the love of thee alone can bind." 

Cf. the ' Giaour ' ; 

" To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall." 

156 : The Poem, 18. The six sons and their father. 

156 : 27 ff. Shelley's prose description of Chillon in his ' Hii- 
tory of a Six Weeks' Tour ' (taken in Byron's company, June, 
1816) is as follows : "We passed on to the Castle of Chillon, 
and visited its dungeons and towers. These prisons are exa- 
vated below the lake; the principal dungeon is supported by 
seven columns, whose branching capitals support the roof. Close 
to the very walls, the lake is 800 feet deep ; iron rings are fast- 
ened to these columns .... Close to this long and lofty dun- 
geon was a narrow cell, and beyond it one larger and far more 
lofty and dark, supported upon two unornamented arches. Across 
one of these arches was a beam, now black and rotten, on which 



NO TES 345 

prisoners were hung in secret. I never saw a monument more 
terrible of that cold and inhuman tyranny, which it has been the 
delight of man to exercise over man [cf. 11. 136-7 of the 
poem] . . . " — Cf. Byron's prose description in note to 1. iii 
below. 

157 : 69 ff. For the contrast between the two brothers, cf. Ari- 
osto, 'Orlando Furioso,' c. xviii, st. 166. 

157 : 57. the pure elements of earth, is apparently a vague and 
general phrase for ' the elementary things which the earth gives to 
all, as air and water and sunshine,' 

158 : 105. giilf ■' used with the sense given it by Byron in 
' Sardanapalus, ' IV, i : 

' ' All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living." 

159 : III. " The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clar- 
ens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake of 
Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and oppo- 
site are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above 
Bouveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a tor- 
rent; below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to 
the depth of 800 feet (French measure); within it are a range of 
dungeons in which the early reformers, and subsequently pris- 
oners of state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
black with age, on which we were informed that the condemned 
were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or rather 
eight, one being half merged in the wall; in some of these are 
rings for the fetters and the fettered. In the pavement the steps 
of Bonnivard have left their traces. He was confined here sev- 
eral years." . . . [Byron's note. 

159 : 122. the very rock hath rocked. The play on words is 
reproduced in • Manfred ' I, i : 

" with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren." 

For the stylistic point, compare Shakspere's Sonnet civ : 

** For as you were when first your eye I eyed. ''^ 
Also 'Richard II,' act V, iii) 85 ; 

" This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound," 



34^ ; NOTES. 

i6l : i86 ff. What points of resemblance are there between this 
passage and the account of the death of the shipwrecked boy in 
' Don Juan ' II, Ixxxviii (above, p. 254) ? 

162 : 215, 216. The last . . . link. The only one that was 
left, the eternal brink. The brink of eternity. 

163 : 245 ff. For the conception and the images, cf. Byron's 
poem * Darkness ' (above, p. 220). 

163 : 265. through the crevice z^ 'in the crevice through 
which.' 

164 : 292. txvice so doubly lone. If it had been his brother's 
soul, he would never have left him a second time, and conse- 
quently doubly lonely and alone from the loss of so bright a hope. 

164 : 294 fF. Is the simile as expanded merely ornamental and 
a flourish, or are 11. 295-299 strictly connected with the picture of 
the prisoner's mental condition? Cf. Wordsworth's ' To a Daf- 
fodil' (1804): 

" I wandered lonely as a cloud." 

165 : 323. Cf. Dryden's version of Chaucer's tale of Palamon 
and Arcite, where Palamon, looking out from the tower of his 
prison, 

" sighed, and turned his eyes, because he knew 
'Twas but a larger jail he had in view." 
165 : 331. The quiet of a loving eye. Cf. Wordsworth, *A 
Poet's Epitaph ' : 

" The harvest of a quiet eye." 

165 : 336. Is the Rhone blue where it enters the lake, not far 
from Chillon ? Or is Byron thinking of its color at some other point 
in its course? Cf. 'Childe Harold,' III, Ixxi (of the Rhone at 
Geneva) : 

" By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone." 

But cf . also ' Don Juan, ' XIV, Ixxxvii : 

" Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 
Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep." 

It is a matter of common observation that water which, under 
certain conditions of atmosphere and light will appear green or 
other color, under other conditions will appear blue, 



NOTES 347 

165 : 339. The town is perhaps Vevey (five miles down the 
lake), or it may be Meillerie (ten miles below on the opposite shore). 
The latter is especially mentioned in Byron's note tol. ill, above. 

166 : 341. ** Between the entrances of the Rhone and Ville- 
neuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small island ; the only one 
I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within 
its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above 
three), and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar 
effect upon the view." [Byron's note. — The island referred to 
(He de la Paix) is artificial and did not exist in Bonivard's time, 
but was built about a century ago. On it three elms were 
planted. 

MANFRED. 

'Manfred' was begun during Byron's Swiss tour of 1816. It 
was finished (in the original version) by February 15, 1817. In 
its revised form it was published in June, 18 17. 

We are assured in the ' Recollections of Byron,' ascribed to the 
Countess Guiccioli, that "the origin of 'Manfred' lies in the 
midst of sublime Alpine scenery, where, on a rock, Bryon dis- 
covered an inscription bearing the names of two brothers, one of 
whom had murdered the other at that spot." In Byron's Swiss 
Journal, September 22 [1816] appears this entry : "Left Thoun 
in a boat . . . passed Interlachen; entered upon a range of scenes 
beyond all description or previous conception. Passed a rock; 
inscription — two brothers — one murdered the other; just the 
place for it." Nothing of this story appears in 'Manfred.' It, 
however, perhaps suggested the theme of remorse, the poet first 
substituting, it may be, a sister, Astarte, for the murdered 
brother, and then transferring the actual deed of blood from 
Manfred's to some other hands. So II, iii, 120 : 

" I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed." 

However this may be, there is no doubt that the Alps furnished 
the chief inspiration of the poem. "As to the germs of ' Man- 
fred,' " Byron wrote from Venice, "they may be found in the 
Journal which I sent to Mrs. Leigh, . . . shortly before I left 
Switzerland. I have the whole scene of 'Manfred ' before me, as 



34^ ^0 TES 

if it was but yesterday, and could point it out, spot by spot, tor- 
rent and all." And announcing the work to Moore (March 25, 
1817), he says : "I wrote a sort of mad Drama, for the sake of 
introducing the Alpine scenery in description." This of course 
is an exaggerated statement of the case, for after all the poetic 
center of the poem is Manfred, not the Alps, and the poem is es- 
sentially psychological and lyrical rather than descriptive. 

See the extracts from Byron's Journal and Letters given below 
in the notes to I, ii, and II, i and ii. 

As to other sources, Goethe's ' Faust ' obviously furnished 
certain suggestions. Writing to Rogers, April 4, 18 17, Byron 
says : "I forgot to tell you that, last autumn, I furnished [Mat- 
thew Gregory, or ' Monk '] Lewis with ' bread and salt ' for some 
days at Diodati, in reward for which (besides his conversation) 
he translated Goethe's 'Faust' to me by word of mouth." And 
later, June 7, 1820, in a letter to Murray : << [Goethe's] 'Faust ' I 
never read, for I don't know German; but Matthew Monk Lewis, in 
1816, at Coligny, translated most of it to me vivd voce, and I was 
naturally much struck with it; but it was the Steinbach and the 
Jungfrau, and something else, much more than Faustus, that 
made me write ' Manfred.' " The two poems are obviously not in 
competition. With several motives in common, the aims are dif- 
ferent, and they belong in different classes.* With the spirit of 
Marlowe's ' Faustus ' ' Manfred ' also has something in common, 
and it is difficult to believe that Byron had never seen Marlowe's 
work, at least the portions contained in Lamb's ' Specimens of 
the English Dramatic Poets,' a book which he knew. Yet Byron 
assures us that such was the fact. "I never read and do not 
know that I ever saw the 'Faustus' of Marlowe," he writes to 
Murray. And later : "As to the ' Faustus ' of Marlowe, I never 
read, never saw, nor heard of it — at least, thought of it, except 
that I think Mr. Gilford mentioned, in a note of his which you 
sent me,- something about the catastrophe; but not as having 
anything to do with min^, which may or may not resemble it, 
for anything I know."/ Jeffrey in his review of the poem re- 
marks that "in the tone and pitch of the composition, as well as 

* For suggestive comparisons of the two poems, see Castelar's 
'Life of Byron' (Lond. 1875), pp. 169-175; Taine, Hist. Eng. Lit. 
Bk. IV, eh. ii, sect. iv. 



NOTES 349 

in the character of the diction in tlic more solemn parts, ' Man- 
fred ' reminds us much more of the ' Prometheus ' of ^Eschylus 
than of any more modern performance. The tremendous, soli- 
tude of the principal person, the supernatural beings with whom 
alone he holds communion, the guilt, the firmness, the misery, 
are all points of resemblance to which the grandeur of the poetic 
imagery only gives a more striking effect." This flattering re- 
semblance Byron was quite willing to admit. "Of the 'Prome- 
theus' of yEschylus," he writes, "I was passionately fond as a 
boy (it was one of the Greek plays we read thrice a year at Har- 
row) . . . The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, has always 
been so much in my head that I can easily conceive its influence 
over all or anything that I have written." Perhaps also, as 
Goethe hinted, certain things in the story of Manfred and Astarte 
were suggested by the story of Pausanias and Cleonice, which 
Byron refers to in both text and notes of II, ii, 182 ff. Moreover, 
as Mr. Tozer suggests, but in a very general sense, sts. v-vii 
of the third book of ' Childe Harold ' (written only a short time be- 
fore Byron began ' Manfred ') contain the germ of the conception 
of '■ Manfred. ' They also suggest the real poetic impulse in the 
writing of this, as of most of his poetry. So Byron, in a letter to 
Murray at this period wrote : ''Without exertion of some kind 
[as in composing 'Manfred']. I should have sunk under my im- 
agination, and reality." 

Compare also 'Childe Harold,' Bk. IV, cxxiii-cxxvii. And 
with the scenery and general atmosphere of 'Manfred,' compare 
Bk. Ill, Ixii, Ixxii-lxxv, xcii, xcvi-xcvii. In further illustration 
of Byron's state of mind at the time of the composition of ' Man- 
fred,' see the end of the extract from his Swiss Journal in the 
notes which follow on Act I, scene ii. 

Of the general aim and character of the poem Byron wrote to 
Murray as follows: "I forgot to mention to you that a kind of 
Poem in dialogue (in blank verse) or Drama ... is finished ; it is in 
three acts; but of a very wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable 
kind. Almost all the persons — but two or three — are Spirits of 
the earth and air, or the waters; the scene is in the Alps; the hero 
a kind of magician, wlio is tormented by a species of remorse, the 
cause of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about invok- 
ing these Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no use; he at 



350 NOTES 

last goes to the very abode of the Evil Principle, in proprid per- 
sond, to evocate a ghost, which appears and gives him an ambig- 
uous and disagreeable answer; and in the third act he is found by 
his attendants dying in a tower where he had studied his art" [so 
in the first version: see notes below to Act III, scene i]. The 
account is sufiBciently deprecatory and unassuming; but all this is, 
of course, but the outer husk and argument; the real poetical 
motive is undescribed. The attempt was so daring and out of the 
common that at first Byron was doubtful of the worth and success 
of the poem. Afterwards he grew more confident, and, in July, 
1817, wrote to Murray: " He is one of the best of my misbegotten, 
say what they will." He felt, however, that the style and con- 
cepti(jn were ultra-romantic and extreme, and, so, suggestive of 
the romantic verse-tales of his English period. "It is too much in 
my old style," he writes. "... I certainly am a devil of a-manner- 
ist, and must leave off." The mannerisms of ' Manfred ' are per- 
haps of two sorts: (i) in the extravagance of Manfred's character 
and moods; (2) in the occasional half-archaisras and stagy turns 
of diction. Both, however, are introduced for a purpobe, and are 
a part of the design as a whole. 

Structurally and regarded as narrative (dramatic it was never 
intended to be\ ' Manfred ' misses being a great poem. / In its 
essence, and aside from the external form and machinery, it is a 
great lyrical poem;* but lyrical in Byron's manner; not in the 
coined and minted perfection of the parts, but in the overmaster- 
ing mood, the impress of a perfectly incomparable and unparal- 
leled genius (in the strict sense of these words), the passionate 
sweep, and the dynamic harmony, felt in the whole./ It is the 
great English poem expressive of modern Welt-Sc/wierz, the woes 
of the Time-Spirit, the throes of Romanticism in life and in liter- 
ature. The misanthropy, the scepticism, and the pessimism of 
the age herein, as sentiments, receive full and fierce expression. 
It has grave defects of style in its parts, but in its central poetic 
purpose it is a magnificent success. Manfred is the central con- 

* Its main lyrical motives have been treated by Tschaikowsky, the 
great Russian composer, in a "Symphony, after Byron's ' Manfred,' 
in four tableaux," somewhat sensationally, but with great lyrical 
power. 



NOTES 351 

ception — Manfred as the type and representative of one part of 
the spirit of Byron's age. Jeffrey, the earliest of the critics of 
'Manfred,' was quite right when he said that "it is Manfred only 
that we are required to fear, to pity, to admire. If we can once 
conceive of him as a real existence and enter into the depth and 
the height of his pride and his sorrows, we may deal as we please 
with the means that have been used to furnish us with this impres- 
sion, or to enable us to attain to this conception. We may regard 
them but as types, or metaphors, or allegories ; but he is the thing 
to be expressed, and the feeling and the intellect, of which all 
these are but shadows." Jeffrey, too, is right in his interpretation 
of the author's design (and Byron approved of Jeffrey's criticism): 
"If we were to consider it as a proper drama, or even as a finished 
poem, we should be obliged to add that it is far too indistinct and 
unsatisfactory. But this we take to be according to the design 
and conception of the author. He contemplated but a dim and 
magnificent sketch of a subject which did not admit of more 
accurate drawing or more brilliant colouring. Its obscurity is a 
part of its grandeur; and the darkness that rests upon it, and the 
smoky distance in which it is lost, are all devices to increase its 
majesty, to stimulate our curiosity, and to impress us with deeper 
awe." 

Manfred is not Byron, except in the sense that Hamlet is 
Shakspere. There is much of Byron's mind in Manfred; more 
of that subtle and indefinable quality, his genius; very little 
indeed of the outward things of Byron's life. 

In addition to .'Eschylus' ' Prometheus,' to Marlowe's ' Faustus, ' 
and to Goethe's 'Faust,' Shelley's 'Prometheus Unbound ' may 
be studied to advantage in connection with 'Manfred.'* It is 
likely also that Byron had Milton's Satan in mind while compos- 
ing this drama. 

What are the qualities of Byron's blank verse in 'Manfred'? 
Does the verse generally lack continuity of thought and of rhyth- 
mical flow ? Where are the prevailing pauses ? What substitu- 
tions and inversions are most frequently used ? Does it lack in 
resonance and richness of tone-color ? Is it better in dialogue or in 

* O. Lohmann (in an article on 'Manfred ' in 'Anglia,' V, 291) suggests 
for further comparison, as a type of revolt, Moliere's ' Don Juan.' 



352 NOTES 

soliloquies and descriptive passages ? Is tiie poet more successful 
in rhymed passages ? Where is rhyme used ? Has Byron's verse 
the merit of being a transparent instrument, so that the poetic idea 
and emotion are transmitted without intercepting the attention in 
the process ? 

What stylistic devices are prominent in this poem ? Is meta- 
phor or is simile more frequent ? Do the tropes used rather 
present pictures or express energy and passion ? What devices of 
repetition are used and vi^hat is the effect? (See, e.g., I, ii, 1-3; 
II, iv, 136, 143-149.) Is the poet's use of personification vivid and 
effective ? Byron's use of poetical epithet (qualifying adjectives) 
throughout ' Manfred ' should be studied, noting the peculiar 
effect and appropriateness of each epithet in its place. See, e.g., 
"the answer'd owls"; ''cloud-cleaving minister"; "serpent 
smile"; "shut soul"; " clankless chain"; " liberal air " ; "saun- 
tering herd"; "toppling crags"; " salt-surf weeds of bitterness "; 
"difScult air" (of mountains); "crackling skies"; "hush'd 
boughs"; "snow-shining mountains"; "angry clouds." But 
does Byron habitually make much use of adjectives ? If not, what 
is it that chiefly gives his style its poetical quality? 

168: The Motto ^ from 'Hamlet' I, v, put in connection witli 
Byron's "dramatic poem," apparently is intended to suggest 
(but merely to suggest) several ideas: (i) the justification of the 
use of the supernatural in 'Manfred;' (2) that the poem is 
philosophical, with a difference, — or at least that it is symbolic; 
(3) and so a poetic-dramatic vindication of Byron's peculiar per- 
sonal philosophy, rather than that of any accepted creeds (or 
Horatio's); and (4) that the hero's state of soul is perhaps funda- 
mentally that of Hamlet; whereupon we are at liberty to recall by 
way of explanation other key-notes in ' Hamlet ' which are 
echoed in ' Manfred,' as, for example : 

" But I have that within which passeth show.'" 



and, 



and, 



How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! " 



" To be, or not to be: that is the question.'' 
But note the essential difference (doubtless both temperamental 



NOTES 353 

and designed) between Byron's ideal of resolution and defiance in 
Manfred and Hamlet's will-lessness. 

Place of the Action : Manfred's castle is imagined as situated 
among the Swiss Alps within sight of the Eiger (cf. Ill, iii, 37). 
Other scenes are in the vicinity, in the Bernese Oberland, or near 
the Jungfrau. 

The Time is nowhere definitely indicated, although all the 
accessories mark it out as being in the Mediseval period. 

The Name ' Manfred ' Byron may have taken from Italian 
literature. There have been three Italian poets named Manfredi. 
Possibly he may have had in mind the Manfredi mentioned in 
canto III of Dante's ' Purgatorio, ' — a son of the Emperor Fred- 
erick II, born 1 23 1. It is more probable, however, that the name 
was suggested to him from Walpole's 'Castle of Otranto,' whose 
chief character bears this name, 

ACT L SCENE I 

168: The Scene: a Gothic Gallery. Similarly in Goethe's 
'Faust' the opening scene is in a "Gothic Room." So, in a 
letter to Moore. June, 1820, Byron admits that " the first scene . . . 
and that of [Goethe's] Faustus are very similar." The first scene 
introduces us to Manfred's peculiar outlook on the world; varied 
with the '' business " of the supernatural element, and elaborate 
lyrical passages in the incantations of the spirits; indicating to us 
finally Manfred's quest, self-forgetfulness, with a first hint of the 
mysterious Astarte. Here, as throughout, however, the impor- 
tant thing in the poetic intention of the composition is not the 
story but what the Germans call the Stiftwmng or mood of the 
piece. 

168:5. For the idea, compare the opening lines of 'The 
Dream ' (above, p. 213): " Sleep hath its own world," etc. 

169 : 10. On this passage Keats, in a letter to Reynolds (May 
3, 18 18), comments (slightly misquoting) : 

" Byron says, ' Knowledge is sorrow' ; and I go on to say that 
'Sorrow is wisdom'; and further, for aught we know for cer- 
tainty, ' Wisdom is folly.' " The phrase quoted by Keats is more 
nearly given by Byron in Act II, sc. iv, 1. 61. 

169: 12. 'Genesis' ii, 9: "And out of the ground made 
the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and 



354 NOTES 

good for food ; the tree of life also in the midst ol the garden, 
and the tree of knowledge of good and evil." 

The line suggests the gist of the Faust- motive (Marlowe, Goethe, 
Byron). 

169 : 13-15 suggest at once, and were perhaps suggested bj, 
the opening lines of Goethe's ' Faust.' 

" Habe nun, ach ! Philosophic, 
Juristerei und Medezin, 
Und, leider ! auch Theologie 
Durchaus sludiert." 

The more general conceptions of philosophy and science Byron 
had "essayed" ; the "springs of wonder," — the imagination — in 
travel and in poetry he knew ; and his life had brought him 
sufficiently in contact with "the wisdom of the world," such as it 
is. So far Manfred is Byron. Other touches are simply invented 
to give variety to the figure. 

169 : 24. that all-natneless hour. A vague phrase, given out 
to heighten the sense of mystery and gloom which Byron likes to 
impart to Manfred as to most of his other heroes. Where later in 
the poem is that "hour" perhaps again referred to? See note 
to II, iv, 83, below. 

169 : 33. mountahis inaccessible. The collocation of long words 
and the resultant rhythm of the line reinforces the sense. Read 
as prose there are only three strong stresses in the line. Read as 
verse the two secondary stresses in * inaccessible ' are given 
greater force than in prose, and the syllables on which they fall 
consequently have a greater metrical or time value : five feet are 
thus plainly felt in the line. Does Byron often introduce long 
words into his verse ? What English poets not infrequently do so ? 

169 : 35. zvritten charm. The sorcerer made use of various 
forms of written charms, sometimes the beginning of the Gospel 
of St. John, or the Ave Maria, or the word ' Abacadabara,' or 
the like; sometimes some spell of special potency was invented 
by the necromancer, as perhaps we are to infer in this case. 

169 : 38. the first among y on. Probably hei-e Arimanes. See 
Act II, sc. iv. So in 11. 39-40. 

170 : 42-49. In this fine poetical climax Byron converts the 
mere magic lore and mystification of the two preceding conjura- 



NOTES 355 

tions of the ' written charm ' and the ' sign ' into an impressive 
piece of symbolism. Spirits of evil appear only to those on whom 
the curse is laid of evil thoughts, imposed by destiny ("its birth- 
place in a star condemn'd "). Fatalism, the sense of sin, imperious 
will, — all of these elements in the conception of Manfred are here 
at once suggested. 

170 : 44. ci star condemn'd. The idea is expanded below in 
11. 110-131. 

170 : 50 ff. The Spirits (named though not in order in 1. 132 : 
'"Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star"), — are 
treated in part in the manner of Shelley, in part in the manner of 
Goethe. But the Titanic sympathy with elemental forces is all 
Byronic. The whole passage, as so much else that is latent in 
the poem, is meant to enforce the feeling of man's littleness face 
to face with elemental Nature. 

Note the changes of metre and rhythm in these Spirit-songs : 
The first in four-foot, trochaic catalectic lines, couplet rhyme ; the 
second, alternate four-foot and three-foot lines in iambic movement, 
with frequent anapaestic substitutions, the rhyme following the 
shorter lines in the first half (with some internal rhyme), but in- 
terlinked in the second ; the third, two-foot anapaestic lines with 
alternate hypermetrical syllables (feminine endings) — perhaps to 
be read as three-foot catalectic, alternating with two-foot lines, 
e.g.: 

Where the wind j is a strang|erA | 
And the sea|-snake hath life.] 

— the rhyme as in the first half of the second; the fourth, ditto; 
the fifth like the second; the sixth a five-foot iambic couplet im- 
pressive, by contrast, through its brevity; the seventh in foiir- 
foot iambic couplets. Is there any artistic appropriateness felt in 
these changes of rhythm (especially in the third) ? 

172 : 106-107. For the introduction into this nature-picture of 
the human interest associated with "The fleet," cf. Byron's ' Letter 
on Bowles's Strictures on Pope ' (Byron's Works, Lond. 1834, 

VI, 355 ff)- 

172: 108. the shadow of the night. "IiKia vvktos. 'The 
Shadow of Night ' is the title of a poem by George Chapman 
(1594)- 



35^ NOTES 

172 : no. A similar conception occurs in the first two lines of 
Byron's ' Stanzas to Augusta' (1816): 

" Though the day of my destiny's over, 
And the star of my fate hath declined." 

This Spirit reappears near the end of * Manfred ' (III, iv, 62 fit. ), 
only to be baffled there and thrown off — marking perhaps Byron's 
ultimate rejection of the idea of fatalism and star or destiny 
influence ? 

172 : 119. Hence the ill-omen which traditionally attaches to 
comets. 

172 : 129. these zueak spi7-its. The Spirit which rules the 
star of Manfred's destiny regards itself as more potent than the 
elemental spirits which represent mere forces of Nature, perhaps 
because it rules a soul. 

173 : ^32- A line rhythmically after the analogy of the famous 
line in 'Paradise Lost ' (II, 621), 

" Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death " 
and to be scanned, if scanned at all, perhaps like this: 

Earth, oc|ean, air, j night, mount|ains, winds, | thy star. 
173 : 135. With this line the donne'e, or working theme of the 
poem, is presented — the quest for self-oblivion: leading to the 
suggestion of the (dramatic) cause why the quest is undertaken; 
the symbolic presentation of the quest itself, culminating in Act 
II, sc. iv (the Faust-motive); then the Resolution of the action 
in the closing scenes, with the suggestion of peace of mind (open- 
ing of Act III, sc. i), and of possible reconciliation and earthly 
forgetfulness in death (end of Act III, sc. iv). 

173 : 148. Will death bestow it on me ? Essentially Hamlet's 
doubt, 

" For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 
Must give us pause." 

Manfred, like Hamlet, is contemplating suicide as an escape 
from his ills. 

Lady Blessington reports Byron as saying: ''One of the most 
fearful thoughts that ever crossed my mind during moments of 
gloomy scepticism has been the possibility that the last sleep may 



NOTES 357 

not be dreamless. Fancy an endless dream of horror ! It is too 
dreadful to think of. This thought alone would lead the veriest 
clod of animated clay that ever existed to aspirations after immor- 
tality." 

173 : 155. the lightning of my being. For the metaphor cf. 
* Childe Harold ' III, st. xcvii. 

173 : 160. in thine own luords. Explained in the next 
speech of the Spirit, which thus implies the assertion of man's 
immortality. 

174 : 168. The Spirits are Spirits of the elements of Nature. 
It is by advancing his sway over Nature through the help of 
science and art (as if a process of magic like that of Manfred), that 
man can command these things. But can he command anything 
further — the really spiritual things — by the help of such means ? 

174 '• ^77- As ?niisic onthe waters. The same simile occurs 
in the lyric *' There be none of Beauty's daughters," above, p. 299. 
Cf. Moore, 

*' Hark ! the vesper hymn is stealing 
O'er the waters soft and clear." 

174 : 187 ff. From Manfred's speech which follows, we infer 
that the Spirit appears in the form of the loved and longed-for 
Astartc; while later (Act II, sc. iv) the true Phantom of Astarte 
appears to him. His love was fatal, and so, here the Spirit of the 
Star of his Destiny takes this form but to delude him and ' crush 
his heart.' Before the end of the poem is any reconciliation and 
atonement through the eternal-feminine suggested for Manfred, as 
it is for Faust in Goethe's drama ? (Cf. Act II, sc. iv, 11. 151-155.) 

175 : 192 ff. What is the dramatic intention of this Incantation ? 
What part does it fulfil in the whole structure of the poem ? Is it 
(in the last three stanzas) the poet's view of the character he has 
created, or that of the malign spirit, who in the end is to be 
baffled ? Or are we to imagine that the Voice is that of Astarte ? 

176 : 250. With the character of Manfred compare that of 
Cain in Byron's drama of that name. 

176 : 251. Thyself to be thy proper Hell. Cf. Milton, 'Par. 
Lost ' I, 254: 

"The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven," 



358 NOTES 

Similarly IV, 20-23, 75-78. Cf. also Marlowe, ' Faustus ' V, 
V, 1 19-126: 

" Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed 
In one self place; for where we are is Hell," etc. 

Cf. Fitzgerald's 'Omar,' st. Ixvi. So Byron's own verses 'To 
Inez ' : 

" Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there." 

— proper^ in the Latin sense {propriiis) = one's own. 

ACT I, SCENE II 

This scene, in its own kind, is put together with extraordinary 
art. The factors or incidents in the scene (the view, the eagle 
passing, the pastoral pipe, the hunter) are delicately adapted and 
timed for the development of the particular mood of Manfred's 
mind which it is the purpose of the scene as a whole to portray. 
The effect is symphonic. The reader who enters into and 
fully imagines the scene cannot resist the thrill of the emotions 
of exultation, awe, mystery, and despair, which follow one another 
so rapidly from the opening to the close. It is a work of imagi- 
nation, but of peculiarly Byronic imagina;tion. The elements of the 
composition were the things which Byron had already seen and 
experienced. "You speak of Lord Byron and me," wrote Keats 
in a letter to his brother Tom, July 23, 1818, "There is this 
great difference between us: he describes what he sees — I describe 
what I imagine." While this is true in a sense, it must be added 
that with Byron at his best the imagination is also and perhaps 
equally operative, raising the materials supplied by experience 
into new and harmonious wholes. But however the imagination 
works, the poetic result is of course the important thing. Com- 
pare, then, the finished result of this scene as a whole with the 
raw materials for it suggested in the following extracts from 
Byron's Swiss Journal and Letters of the preceding year : 

" We have been to the Grindelwald, and the Jungfrau, and stood on 
the summit of the Wenge[r]n Alp; and seen torrents of nine hundred 
feet in fall, and glaciers of all dimensions : we have heard shepherds' 
pipes, and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from the 
valleys below us, like the spray of the ocean of hell " [cf. 11, 82-89] . . , 



NOTES 359 

" Crossed the mountains to Montbovon . . . the whole route beautiful 
as a dream, and now to me almost as indistinct. ... At the approach of 
the summit of Dent Jument [Dent de Jaman] dismounted . . . the whole 
of the mountains superb. A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff 
playing upon his pipe. . . . Our Swiss shepherd's pipe was sweet, and his 
tune agreeable. . . . The view from the highest points of to-day's journey 
comprised on one side the greatest part of Lake Leman ; on the other, 
the valleys and mountain of the Canton of Fribourg, and an immense 
plain, with the lakes of Neuchatel and Morat, and all which the bor- 
ders of the Lake of Geneva inherit; we had both sides of the Jura before 
us in one point of view, with Alps in plenty. . . . The music of the 
cows' bells (for their wealth, like the patriarchs', is cattle) in the pas- 
tures, which reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain, and 
the shepherds shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on their 
reeds where the steeps appeared almost inaccessible, with the surround- 
ing scenery, realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a 
pastoral existence [cf. 1. 49]. ... I have lately repeopled my mind with 
nature. . . . On one side [Sept. 23] our view comprised the Jungfrau, 
with all her glaciers; then the Dent d' Argent, shining like truth; then 
the Little Giant (the Kleine Eigher), and the Great Giant (the Grosse 
Eigher), and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. . . . Heard the avalanches 
falling every five minutes [cf. 1. 77]. From whence we stood, on the 
Wenge[r]n Alp, we had all these in view on one side; on the other the 
clouds rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices 
like the foam of the ocean of hell, during a spring tide — it was white, 
and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appearance [cf., again, 11. 
82-89] ... on arriving at the summit, we looked down upon the other 
side upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crags on which we 
stood (these crags on one side quite perpendicular). . . . Passed whole 
-woods of withered pines, all withered ; trunks stripped and barkless, 
branches lifeless ; done by a single winter, — their appearance reminded 
me of me and my family [cf. II. 66-69] "••.*' I am a lover of nature 
and an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue and welcome privation, 
and have seen some of the noblest views in the world. But in all this 
— the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of recent and more 
home desolation, which must accompany me through life, have preyed 
upon me here; and neither the music of the shepherd, the crashing of 
the avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, the forest, 
nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight upon my 
heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity in the majesty, 
and the power, and the glory, around, above, and beneath me [cf. IL 
7ff.]" 

See also further extracts cited below to illustrate ^\ct II, sc. ii^ 



360 NOTES 

177:5- the past, — alluding again to ^'that all nameless 
hour" of I, i, 24. 

177 = 6. giilf'd. Byron is fond of verbs formed from nouns. 
So later, e.g., glass' d, uncharnel, etc. 

177 : 10, bright eye of the universe. A not uncommon poet- 
ical metaphor for the sun : e.g., cf. Marlowe's 'Faustus,' sc. xvi, 
1. 70 : "IFair Nature's eye, rise." 

177:27. my oiimsoiiPs sepulchre. For the metaphor, cf. Chap- 
man, 'Tragedy of Caesar and Pompey,' IV, ii, 

" What soul that ever loved them most in life, — 
Once severed from this breathing sepulchre, — 
Again came ? " — 
Cf. also his Plays, Lond. 1874, pp. 188-9. 

Cf. Shakspere, 'Richard II': "this frail sepulchre of our 
flesh." 

178 : 37 ff. Another of the half-echoes from ' Hamlet ' which 
abound in 'Manfred.' Cf. ' Hamlet,' II, ii, 307 ff., — not so much 
for the verbal echoes, as for the similarity of ideas, mood, and 
situation. 

178:47. Hark! the note. Cf. (perhaps the hint which 
Byron used) the Easter chorus in 'Faust,' sc. i, 384 ff. 

178 : 55. A bodiless enjoyment. Cf. Shelley, To a Skylark 
(1820): "Like an unbodied joy." 

179 : 72. Why diQQS ploug/i' d seem so much more intense and 
energetic as a metaphor than the "furrow'd o'er" of the preced- 
ing line? What is the full meaning of the phrase "plough'd by 
moments" used in this connotation? 

179 '• 73- ^^^ refers to the "moments," "years," and "hours '" 
just mentioned, — i.e., 'they are as ages, and each is full of tor- 
ture for me.' 

180: 99. Thus., in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg. Properly 
Mount Rossberg, near Goldau, in the vicinity of the Rigi, where 
Sept. 2, 1806, occurred an extraordinary landslide, changing in a 
few minutes a fruitful valley into a rocky waste, destroying ever 
four hundred and fifty human lives and several hundred build- 
ings forming part of four villages, and filling up a quarter of the 
Lake of Lowerz, which lies at the bottom of the valley. The allu- 
sion, however, would be technically an anachronism if the poet 
desired to keep up the mediaeval atmosphere and setting. 



NOTES 3^1 

ACT II, SCENE I 

This scene, of relatively inferior interest, seems intended to 
reveal, through the contrast with the simple and honest nature of 
the Chamois Hunter, more of the complexity and pathos of Man- 
fred's temperament, as well as to suggest the new spirit of in- 
domitable endurance with which he renews his quest for self- 
oblivion after having been defeated in his previous attempts. 

l8l : 7ff. The allusions of this speech suggest fully the medi- 
aeval atmosphere and setting of the poem, only partially suggested 
before in the diction, the magic, and the indications of the scene 
in the beginning. 

181 : 21 if. Suggested perhaps by Lady Macbeth's exclamations 
in the sleep-walking scene, 'Macbeth,' V, i. 

182:29. blood . . . Colouring the clouds. For the image, cf. 
Marlowe's 'Faustus,' sc. xvi, 78: 

" O, I'll leap up to my God ! Who pulls me down ? 
See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament ! " 

Cf. Shelley, 'TheCenci' (1819), III, i, 13, 

"The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood." 

182 : 51 ff. Cf. * Childe Harold,' III, v : 

'* grown aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years." 

Cf. Bailey, ' Festus,' 

*'We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by lieart-throbs." 

— and Sheridan, ' Pizarro,' IV, i : '-A life spent worthily should 
be measured by a nobler line,— by deeds, not years." (Rolfe.) 

182 : 58. the salt- surf weeds of bitterness. The involution of 
metaphor within metaphor — -'salt-surf" and "bitterness " to be 
taken in both their literal and their metaphorical senses — is ex- 
tremely effective. 

183 : 63 fif. It is for the sake of the contrast here explicitly 
stated, but felt throughout the scenes in which he appears, 
that the character of the Chamois Hunter is introduced into the 
drama at all. 



362 NOTES 

183 : 79-81. Manfred, of course, is full of traits of Byronic 
self portraiture. With the sentiment of these lines, cf. Byron's 
Swiss Journal : "Storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail ; all in 
perfection and beautiful. I was on horseback ; guide wanted to 
carry my cane ; I was going to give it him, when I recollected 
that it was a sword-stick, and I thought the lightning might be 
attracted towards him; kept it myself." Lady Blessington's im- 
pression of his '' cautious feeling for another's pain " she reports 
in these words : ''He is peculiarly compassionate to the poor. I 
remarked that he rarely, in our rides, passed a mendicant without 
giving him charity, which was invariably bestowed with gentle- 
ness and kindness." . . . "Unlike the world in general, Byron 
never makes light of the griefs of others, but shows commiseration 
and kindness." 

183 : 85. que IV d is here used in the older sense of " killed," 
"destroyed" (A. S. cwellan), as occasionally in Spenser, Shak- 
spere, etc. 

ACT II, SCENE II 

A central scene for its nature passages and for its exposition of 
the perplexities of Manfred's mind and history. Passionate solil- 
oquy, despair, and self-analysis are here carried almost to their 
highest reach. Manfred, like his creator Byron and like all of 
the Romanticists, is a lover of solitude, and naturally turns to it 
for help in his grief. He thinks perhaps to find, like "Wordsworth, 
consolation and balm for hurt minds in Nature. The beautiful 
Witch of the Alps, who perhaps symbolizes the charm and the 
healing power of Nature in her solitudes, offers to help him, if he 

" Will swear obedience to my will." 

But Manfred will not yield his will to any outside power. And so, 
in spite of his passionate love for Nature, she cannot cure him. 
Byron, in spite of his alienation from society, perpetually asserts 
the overlordship of humanity. In mankind, in the phenomena of 
human energy and will, and not in Nature, is his primary interest ; 
and so the Wordsworthian philosophy of Nature is not for him. 
Cf. the 'Letters to Bowles.' 

— The Cataract, which is the home of the Witch of the Alps, is 
probably the Staubbach, near Lauterbrunnen. 



NOTES 363 

184 : 1-8. The germ of this passage again is to be found in 
Byron's Swiss Journal (Sept. 22 and 23) : "Before ascending the 
mountain, went to the torrent (seven in the morning) again ; the 
sun upon it, forming a rainbow of the lower part of all colours, 
but principally purple and gold ; the bow moving as you move ; I 
never saw anything like this; it is only in the sunshine." . . . 
'• The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, like the tail of a 
white horse streaming in the wind such as it might be conceived 
would be that of the * pale horse ' on which Death is mounted in 
the Apocalypse [cf. 11. 7-8] . It is neither mist nor water, but a 
something between both ; its immense height (nine hundred feet) 
gives it a wave or curve, a spreading here or condensation there, 
wonderful and indescribable." 

184 : 13. The Witch of the Alps is a witch of an entirely dif- 
ferent conception from Shakspere's witches, as in 'Macbeth.' 
Witches of course need not be old and ugly, as witness the witch 
Nannie of the cutty sark in Burns' 'Tarn O'Shanter.' Byron's 
witch, however, is a ''beautiful Spirit " and rather akin to Shel- 
ley's Witch of Atlas (1820) — of whom, too, we read that "she 
first was changed into a vapour." Compare also the beautiful 
young witch whom Faust meets in the Walpurgisnacht. 

— The description that follows, while applied to the " Spirit " in 
human form, is partly applicable also, by metaphor, to the Cata- 
ract itself. 

185 : 50 ft'. Portions of the long self-characterization which 
follows present us the personal Byron with little disguise; other 
portions give us Byron idealized into Manfred, interwoven wilh 
the Faust-motive. For the conception of the poetical idealist here 
outlined cf. ' Childe Harold ' III, sts. xii-xv ; cf. also st. cxiii. 

186 : 62 ft". Contrast with Byron's enumeration of the typical 
pleasures to be found in Nature, those recited, for example, by 
Milton in ' L' Allegro ' and ' II Penseroso, ' or by Wordsworth in 
' Tintern Abbey,' 

" The sounding- cataract 
Haunted me like a passion," etc. 

186 : 89-91. Cf. 'Childe Harold ' III, st. xiv : 

" Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars." 

186 : 92. <'The philosopher Jamblichus. The story of the 



304 NOTES 

raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life by Euna- 
pius." [Byron's note. — The story is that Jamblichus, while near 
two springs at Gadara in Syria, which were named Eros and An- 
teros, astonished his disciples by putting his hand into the water, 
muttering a spell, and thus calling up out of each spring a Cupid, 
one golden-haired, the other dark-haired. Then at his bidding 
they returned to their places. 

187 : 105-113. The description of the kindred spirit is some- 
what in the manner of Shelley. Cf., for example, 'Alastor' 
(i8i5)i5iff. 

" Her voice was like the voice of his own soul," etc. 

Cf. also the * Epipsychidion. ' 

187 : 118. So in Faust, Gretchen's heart is broken by Faust's 
treatment of her. This perhaps provided the germ of Byron's 
conception, although there is nothing of Goethe in other points \\\ 
the situation of the mysterious mistress of Manfred. 

187 : 119 fF. Remorse is a constant motive in Byron's poetry. 
It underlies ' The Giaour,' where we have the similar situation of 
a hero, proud in will but despairing, rejecting the consolations of 
the church, and a lost mistress. Cf. also ' The Corsair ' (esp. II, 
x), ' Cain,' etc. 

Gait (' Life of Byron,' 1830, p. 217) makes the romantic but im- 
probable suggestion that the reference here to the shedding of 
blood is to the voluntary sacrifice of herself by Astarte, so that, 
through the shedding of blood, Manfred might acquire mastery 
over all orders of spirits, and so reach that knowledge and power 
he was seeking. Human blood and a willing sacrifice were pre- 
requisite to this last degree in magic. Clinton ('Life of Byron,' 
1827, p. 384) suggests that Astarte's suicide is hinted at. 

189 : 171. In lif^ there is no present. Ci. Tennyson, 'The 
Hozu and Why ' : 

" In time there is no present." 

189 : 181. Cf. I 'Samuel' xxviii, 7-20: the witch of Endor 
calls up the spirit of Samuel before Saul, and the spirit foretells 
Saul's downfall and death. Byron has treated the subject in a 
short lyric entitled ' Saul ' in the ' Hebrew Melodies.' 

189 : 182-191. "The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta . . . 
and Cleonice is told in Plutarch's Life of Cimon, and in the La- 



JVOTES 3^5 

conies of Pausanias the sophist, in his description of Greece." 
[Byron's note. — Pausanias, while at Byzantium and in love with 
Cleonice, a beautiful maiden of that city, mistaking her in the 
night for an assassin, slew her. ' ' Howbeit she never let Pau- 
sanias take rest after that, because her spirit came every night 
and appeared unto him. , . . And because that this maiden's 
spirit would never let him rest, but vexed him continually, he fled 
unto the city of Heraclea, where there was a temple that conjured 
dead spirits, and there was the spirit of Cleonice conjured to pray 
her to be contented. So she appeared unto him, and told him 
that he should be delivered of all his troubles so soon as he came 
to Sparta ; signifying thereby (in my opinion) the death which he 
should suffer there." So North's Plutarch. In Pausanias (' De- 
scription of Greece,' trans. A. R. Shilleto, London, 1886, Bk. Ill, 
ch. xvii, Laconia) the story is told substantially as in Plutarch, 
except that Pausanias adds: ''This guilt Pausanias could not 
clear himself from, though he endeavoured in every way to pro- 
pitiate Zeus the Acquitter,* and even went to Phigalia in Arcadia 
to the necromancers; but he paid to Cleonice and the deity the fit 
penalty." Besides the present lines it is probable that these pas- 
sages suggested to Byron Astarte's appearance to Manfred in 
sc. iv, her prediction to him in 1. 151, and also, as already 
noted, the germ of the idea of the relations of Manfred and Astarte 
referred to so frequently throughout the poem. 

189 : 189. to depose her wrath. Depcjse in the Latin sense of 
deponere = to lay aside, to lay down. 

ACT II, SCENE III 

The Siimmit of the Jungfran Mountain is a fit scene for the pres- 
ence of the awful beings of the world of spirits which here appear. 
It was not completely inaccessible to man even in Byron's day, 
for the first ascent was made in 181 1, although (1. 2) the poet 
seems to ignore this fact. In choosing the mountain top for his 
scene Byron may have been thinking of Goethe's similar use of 
the Brocken in ' Faust.' This place, however, is more stupendous 

*Zei>s (pv^ios, Zeus who favors flight, or Zeus the rescuer. Byron's 
" Phyxian Jove." 



366 NOTES 

and remote, as befits the character of the beings introduced. — The 
scene as a whole is merely a prelude to the following scene. 

Byron's treatment of the Three Fates or Destinies (Parcse or 
Moerse) in this scene is somewhat free. In general they resemble 
the classical Parcae, but the ancients did not, as a rule, represent 
them as so crudely maleficent. The association with Arimanes (a 
Persian deity) was perhaps suggested by the fact that the ancients 
sometimes represented them as ministersgof the King of Hades and 
sitting at the foot of his throne. 

190 : 4. the savage sea refers to the metaphor repeated in the 
next line ("The glassy ocean "). A verb of motion has to be 
supplied. 

190 : 8. Cf. Byron's Swiss Journal : " Arrived at the Grinden- 
wald ; mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier — like a frozen 
hurricane." 

190 : 14. for to-night Is our great festival. The idea was, 
perhaps, suggested by the Walpurgisnacht in 'Faust.' 

190 : 14. Arimdnes (or Ahriman, more exactly Angra Mainyu) 
appears in the next scene. The name signifies Hostile or Destroy- 
ing Spirit, — "The Enemy." He is the Evil Spirit and Prince of 
Darkness of the * Zend-Avesta ' and Persian mythology. All 
other evil spirits are subject to him, — and thus Byron represents 
them. He resides in Hell, surrounded by an army of demons 
whom he has created. He poisons all the elements of the created 
world, and brings into being hunger, thirst, and evils of every 
kind. Byron has magnificently developed this conception of the 
Evil Power in the opening speech of the next scene. 

190 : 15 ff. A Voice without. That of one of the other Desti- 
nies who enter later. War, shipwreck, and plague, are chosen as 
the three types of evil wrought by the Destinies. Lines 16-25 
perhaps were written with Napoleon in mind. So too Gray's 
' The Fatal Sisters ' foretell war and carnage. Cf. in ' Macbeth ' 
the witches' recital of the evil they have just been accomplish- 
ing. 

190 : 16 ff. For the rhythm, cf. Act I, sc. i, 76-87. What is 
the difference, rhythmically, between the two passages ? Cf. the 
song of the spirits in I ' Faust,' 1093 ff. Note the curious rhyme- 
scheme (three stanzas, a b a c b c). 

191 : 26 ff. Shipwrecks were a favorite subject of Byron's 



MOTES 367 

imagination. Cf. above (pp. 258 ff.) the account of the shipwreck 
from ' Don Juan. ' 

192:62-71. Is the satire in keeping with the conventional 
idea of Nemesis and the Destinies ? Is it in keeping with the tone 
of this scene and of the drama as a whole ? The allusions are to 
the fall of Napoleon, the restoration of the Bourbons, and other 
events of the period. 

ACT II, SCENE IV 

This scene, although entirely thaumaturgic, ultra-romantic, and 
built up of the machinery of the supernatural, is extremely impres- 
sive and constitutes a sort of climax in the progress of the drama 
as a whole. Manfred's character is here brought out in its fulness, 
and his final mastery over the spirits is foreshadowed. 

For Arimanes cf. note to Act II, sc. iii, 14, above. 

With the scene as a whole compare the description of the Hall 
of Eblis, in Beckford's 'Vathek' (near the end), a book which 
Byron had read and admired, and to which his imagination was 
doubtless indebted in this scene. 

192 : 7-16. The music and magnificence of this hymn can be 
fully appreciated only when one reads it aloud. The crash and 
crescendo of the concluding lines perhaps excel anything that 
Byron, that master of climax, has elsewhere done. 

194 : 35. What does it here refer to? 

194 : 41-42. What gives these lines their peculiarly poetical 
effect ? What rhetorical figure is used ? 

195 : 77- Powers deeper still beyond. Cf. the conception of 
Demogorgon in Shelley's ' Prometheus Unbound ' II, iv; similarly, 
too, in Greek mythology. So the ancients regarded Zeus himself 
as subject to Fate or Necessity. Cf. Keats' 'Hyperion.' 

195 : 83. Astarte. The name originally of the Syrian Aphrodite, 
associated by Milton also (' Par. Lost' I, 438) v/ith the brood of 
Hell. Byron's Astarte, however, is apparently not the goddess, 
although she is "one without a tomb" (cf., however, 1. 107 : 
''The grave which enthrall'd thee "); she is the mysterious being, 
woman, mistress, blood-relative, frieiifl, of Manfred's years fore- 
past, whose prototype is found in the Cleonice of the story of 
» Pausanias and Cleonice,' above (II, ii, 182 ff".). The name Astarte 



368 NOTES 

is probably given her to suggest the present association and to 
add another element of mystery to her nature. 

For further references to this mysterious portion of the story, 
cf. I, i, 24, 87-91; II, i, 21-30, 84-87; II, ii, 59, 104-121, 192- 
197; II, iv, 83, 97-155; III. iii. 41-47- 

196 : 98. The Phantom of Astarte. For the possible symbolism 
underlying this apparition, cf. ' Childe Harold ' IV, cxxiv, 3-4 : 

" Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first." 

196 : 100. Cf. Shelley's ' Ode to the West Wind ' (1819) : 

" thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 

Are driven 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red." 

197 • 154- ^'^y^ thou lovest me. Phan. Alanfred ! With this 
enigmatical answer Astarte vanishes. With what tones are we to 
imagine that she pronounces the name Manfred ? Is it a cry of 
love and atonement ? Is the germ here of the conclusion of the 
second part of Goethe's ' Faust,' 

" Das Ewig-Weibliche 
Zieht uns hinan," 

and as Margaret's love for Faust reaches beyond the grave, so 
here does Astarte's for Manfred ? 

198 : 160. he mastereth himself^ and makes His toriure tribu- 
tary to his will. In these words is summed up the secret of 
Byron's nature, his chief differentia. His will would not be 
broken. Not strength of will and self-mastery, but indomitable 
persistency of will, was his, confronting all Will from without with 
Titanic resistance; all tortures of the spirit, to the death that ended 
all, being made tributary to his will. Nothing of the spirit of 
reconciling submission, Dante's 

" La sua volontade e nostra pace," 

or Cardinal Newman's 

" I loved to choose and see my path, but now, 
Lead Thou m^on," 

but the inflexible assertion of the individual might and spiritual 
independence of the human soul. 



NOTES 369 



ACT III, SCENE I 

The third act as originally written was bad and a failure, as Byron 
admitted after reflection and when he had been informed of 
Giffbrd's private censure passed upon it. Byron composed 
rapidly, and laborious correction and polish were things that he 
brought himself to with difficulty. All the more remarkable, 
therefore, is this the revised version, which he produced within a 
month after the abandonment of the first version. In the first 
version (printed in its entirety in Moore's 'Life of Byron,' fol- 
lowing the letter to Murray of May 5, 18 1 7) there are only two 
scenes. As far as line 56 the two versions are identical; while 
the whole of the present scene ii, including Manfred's impassioned 
invocation to the sun, formed the conclusion of the original scene i. 
In between, however, in place of the present text, wherein the 
Abbot labors in vain to convert Manfred from the error of his 
thoughts, but finally departs in peace, stood a passage of some 
sixty lines in which the Abbot is represented as threatening 
Manfred with dire punishments unless he reconciles himself at 
once to the Church; hereupon Manfred, somewhat after the man- 
ner of Faustus in Marlowe's drama, plays " pranks fantastical " 
with the Abbot, summoning the Demon Ashtaroth, who appears 
singing a grotesque and uncanny demon-chant of a raven, a gib- 
bet, and the witches' carnival (a lyric which the poet Thomas 
Lovell Beddoes perhaps has imitated iw Wolfram's Song in 
'Death's Jest- Book,' act v, sc. iv), and who at Manfred's bid- 
ding conveys the Abbot through the air to the peak of the 
Schreckhorn, there to do penance till sunrise. For the serious 
purposes of the drama this is, as Byron soon saw, out of keeping 
and mere "nonsense." How much more dignified and adequate 
is the present version ! The second scene of the discarded version 
coincided with the present third scene as far as line 47. But at 
this point, instead of* the entrance of the Abbot, Herman and 
Manuel suddenly break off (the mystery of Astarte remains un- 
revealed in both versions) on discovering that Manfred's tower is 
on fire. Manfred, mortally injured, is rescued from the ruins 
and expires, 

" With strange accompaniments and fearful signs," 



370 NOTES 

uttering, addressed to Manuel, the dying words here addressed to 
the Abbot : 

" Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die." 

The drama closes with three lines given to Herman and 
Manuel : 

'■'• Her. His eyes are fixed and lifeless. — He is gone. 
Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quivers. — He departs — 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone ! " 

In the re-written act the poet has given us a poetical instead of 
a melodramatic ending, including the famous passage on the 
Coliseum, and a fitting farewell to all that is mortal of 
Manfi-ed. 

198 : 5. The reference to the key and casket seems to have 
been retained from the original version by inadvertence. Here 
they are not again referred to ; there they were used by Manfred 
in calling up the Demon Ashtaroth. 

ipQ : 13. The golden secret^ the sought '•'■ Kolon.'' rb Ka\6v, 
beauty, moral beauty ; or more commonly in the compounded 
form KoXoKa-yadbv, the beautiful and good, in the Academic phil- 
osophy, the ideal of man. 

199 '• 17-18- A reminiscence of Hamlet, who, after the schol- 
ar's habit, and with similar inconsequentiality, calls for 

" My tables, — meet it is I set it down, 
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain." 

199 : 19. The abbot of St. Maurice. At St. Maurice, in the Rhone 
valley, some few miles above the point where the river empties 
into Lake Leman and some fifty miles from the region where 
most of the action of this drama is imagined to take place, there 
is a very ancient and at one time important abbey, now inhabited 
by Augustinian monks. 

200 : 63. Cf. 'Romans' xii, 19: "Vengeance is mine; I 
will repay, saith the Lord." 

200 : 70-71. The sense is, " Remorse, not founded on the fear 
of hell, in itself produces deep despair," etc. Cf. Sackville's 
'Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates,' st. 32 : 

" And first, within the porch and jaws of Hell 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience." 



NOTES 371 

Compare and contrast the treatment of the theme of despair in 
Marlowe's ' Faustus,' especially scenes xiv and xvi. 

201 : 88-96. The story of the death of Nero, sixth emperor, 
A.D. 54-68, is told in Suetonius, 'Life of Nero' xlix. 

201 : loi. despair above, i.e., despair of being pardoned above, 
in Heaven. 

ACT III, SCENE II 

This passage formed the conclusion of the original first scene. 
Of it Byron said: "The speech of Manfred to the Sun is the 
only part of this act [in its first form] I thought good myself." 
Cf. the equally magnificent Hymn to the Sun in Tennyson's 
'Akbar's Dream.' Cf. also Ossian's Address to the Sun (at 
end of 'Carthon '). 

204: 4-8. The fate of these ''giant sons" and "erring 
spirits" forms the subject of Byron's dramatic poem 'Heaven 
and Earth,' 1821. Cf. 'Genesis' vi, 2, 4. Cf. also, Moore's 
poem ' The Loves of the Angels,' 1823. 

204 : 13. the Chaldean shepherds. The Chaldeans were fire- 
worshippers. 

ACT III, SCENE III 

What is the poetic intention of this scene and its function in 
the structure of the drama ? Why the references to the mj^sterious 
chamber, the vigils in the tower, Manfred's father and the good 
old times, his wanderings, and the fatal night where Manfred and 
the still-undescribed Astarte were alone together in the tower ? 
In what way does this scene serve as preparation for and contrast 
to the final scene that follows ? 

206 : 37. The (Grosse) Eiger stands a few miles north from 
the Jungfrau in the region of the Bernese Oberland. Manfred's 
castle is thus imagined in this region in sight of the Eiger, — but 
not necessarily to the east of it, as the sunset rays frequently 
color the clouds in the east as well as the west. 

206 : 46-47. For the missing word are we to supply sister ? 
And is the love described that of brother and sister ? Does that 
agree with previous references to Astarte ? Or is the word perhaps 
cousin ? The poet obviously intended the mystery to pique our 
curiosity, but still to remain unsolved. 



372 NOTES 



ACT III, SCENE IV 

The structure of this scene deserves study. The calm and 
solemn opening with its reminiscences of earthly beauty and 
glory in Manfred's soliloquy, then the intervention of the Abbot, 
the representative of conventional opinion and the conventional 
power of good, as opposed to the conventional and limited powers 
of evil who next appear, — all by subtle gradations prepare our 
mood for the climax of Manfred's fate that follows, and all serve 
to set in bold relief the dominant figure of the hero. 

Byron's once notorious and agitating "scepticism" is to be 
traced in the implications of this scene more than elsewhere in 
the poem. It properly gives the "moral " of the piece. Manfred 
is not converted and saved at the last moment by the power of 
the Church, nor is he carried off despairing by the powers of evil, 
as is the hero in Marlowe's ' Faustus ' and in the popular versions 
of the Faust legend generally. Moreover Goethe's optimistic re- 
solution of the situation in the ending of the second part of 
' Faust' was not then in existence to afford the hint of still a third 
outcome to Byron. And so, with the stern naturalism which was 
the result of the absolute integrity and intellectual sincerity of 
Byron's poetic genius when confronted with the fundamental 
and eternal problems of life, Manfred is neither saved by the 
Church, nor damned by the Devil, nor rapt up to Heaven by the 
intercession of the atoning power of the Ever-Feminine, but 
simply dies, an immortal soul, destined to the immortality of its 
own heaven or hell, — of its own heaven and hell. 

" The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time." 

This is Byron's doctrine — his poetic doctrine — of future punish- 
ment and future life. A complete statement in four lines of the 
relativity of all existence except that of the individual soul ! As 
for this life and the ending of it, — 

" Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die." 



NOTES 373 

207 : 3-7. For Byron's feeling for night cf. ' Childe Harold ' 
III, Ixxxvi ff. Cf. also his lyric "She walks in Beauty, like the 
night" (above, p. 296). 

207 : 10 ff. With this famous poetical description of the Colos- 
seum compare that in ' Childe Harold ' IV, sts. cxxviii-cxxxi. By 
producing what poetical and dramatic effect is the presence of so 
long and elaborate a set piece of description in this crucial scene 
justified ? 

207 : 16, 22. the Ccssar's palace. On the Palatine Hill. Cf. 
' Childe Harold ' IV, cvi-cx, — where also the incident of the owl's 
cry on the Palatine is mentioned. What other striking points of 
likeness and of difference are there in the two descriptions ? 

209 : 62-65. ^f- ^^ Shelley's 'Prometheus Unbound' II, iv, 
2-7, Panthea's description of Demogorgon; 

" I see a mighty darkness 
Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom 
Dart round, as light upon the meridian sun, 
Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither limb. 
Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is 
A living Spirit." 

Which passage better conveys the impression of awe and mys- 
tery and spiritual majesty, and why ? 

209 : 77- on his brow The thiitider-scars are graven. Cf. ' Para- 
dise Lost ' I, 600 (the description of Satan) : 

' ' but his face 
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched." 

209 : 81. The genius of this mortal. Hence the same spirit 
who had appeared in I, i, 1 10 ff. 

210 : 97. this man is forfeited. The Faust-motive. But note 
Manfred's answer to this claim, below, line 124. 

211 : 117. Cf. Byron's 'Heaven and Earth' passim. 

211 : 131. Is its oivn origin of ill and end — i.e. 'and end of 
ill.' 

211:132. And its own place and time. Possibly a reminiscence 
of the Kantian doctrine that space and time are but forms of 
thought. Cf. 'Cain '.II, i, 161. 



374 NOTES 

211 : 135. Sufferance. Here used in the sense of suffering, 
misery ; as in Shakspere, ' Lear ' III, vi : 

" But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip, 
When grief hath mates." 

211 : 139- '^''^d, will be My own hereafter^ i.e. 'will be my own 
future-life, my own heaven or hell.' 

211 : 141. The Dejnons disappear. The key to the whole action. 
As explained above, the baffling of the spirits of evil, — and by 
no device or trickery other than the assertion of the indomitable 
and immortal human will — is the significant variation which 
Byron introduces into the treatment of the Faust-motive. Cf. 
the concluding lines of Byron's 'Prometheus': 

" Triumphant where it [the will] dares defy, 
And making Death a victory." 

212 : 151. In the first edition this line was accidentally omitted ; 
whereupon Byron wrote to Murray : ' ' You have destroyed the 
whole effect and moral of the poem, by omitting the last line of 
Manfred's speaking." 

The ending of the poem is quiet, dignified, and full of intense 
Byronic sincerity of utterance. 

These notes upon ' Manfred ' may be concluded with a quota- 
tion from an old-fashioned and forgotten contemporary criticism 
of the character of Manfred. " The creation of such a character," 
writes Gait in his 'Life of Byron,' 1830, p. 328, "is in the sub- 
limest degree of originality ; to give it appropriate thoughts and 
feelings required powers worthy of the conception ; and to make 
it susceptible of being contemplated as within the scope and 
range of human sympathy, places Byron above all his contem- 
poraries and antecedents. ^ Milton has described in Satan the 
greatest of human passions, supernatural attributes, directed to 
immortal intents, and stung with inextinguishable revenge ; but 
Satan is only a dilatation of man. Manfred is loftier, and worse, 
than Satan; he has conquered punishment, having within himself 
a greater than hell can inflict. There is a fearful mystery in this 
conception." -• 



NOTES 375 



THE DREAM 



Written at Diodati, near Geneva, July, l8l6. Published with 
the * Prisoner of Chillon ' in December of the same year. 

This poem is essentially personal and autobiographical. The 
machinery of the dream is but a poetical convention. The real 
theme is the story of the great formative emotional experience of 
the poet's youth, his unrequited love for Mary Chaworth. The 
experience was like an evil dream, and so is naturally recalled as 
though it were a dream (''Is not the past all shadow?"). The 
introductory paragraph sets forth this conception of the nature of 
human experience. The rest of the poem is a straightforward 
relation, from memory heightened by imagination, of his boy- 
hood love and disappointment, and of the effect of this disappoint- 
ment on his character and life, leading to the first Childe Harold 
pilgrimage, to his own marriage to one not the object of his early 
love, and to the "blight and desolation" that followed this in- 
auspicious union. The poem is autobiographical, however, only 
in its main outlines. In its details truth and fiction are strangely 
mingled. The scenery and places are described with fidelity. 
But while some points in the love-story agree with the facts, 
others are altered for poetical effect. Thus line 104 ("And ne'er 
repassed that hoary threshold more") forms a better climax for 
this passage than the real fact: for in 1808, after Miss Chaworth's 
marriage, Byron dined at Annesley on her husband's invitation. 
The striking incident of the poet's curious state of mind at his 
own wedding ceremony, related in section vi of the poem, may 
or may not be largely a piece of poetic invention. It accords 
well enough with Byron's temperament. And Moore, apparently 
on the authority of unpublished Memoranda by Byron, testifies 
that it agrees closely with Byron's own prose account of his wed- 
ding ; "in which he describes himself as waking, on the morn- 
ing of his marriage, with the most melancholy reflections, on 
seeing his wedding suit spread out before him. In the same 
mood he wandered about the grounds alone, till he was summoned 
for the ceremony, and joined, for the first time on that day, his 
bride and her family. He knelt down — he repeated the words 
after the clergyman ; but a mist was before his eyes — his thoughts 



37^ NOTES 

were elsewhere ; and he was but awakened by the congratulations 
of the bystanders to find that he was — married." Jeaffreson 
(' The Real Lord Byron.' 176 ff., 379), however, argues strenuously 
that there is little of autobiographic value in the poem, especially 
in the passage relating to the poet's own marriage. 

Mrs. Chaworth-Musters was in fact unhappy in her married 
life, and after a separation from her husband became for a time 
mentally deranged (section vii). She however did not "end in 
madness " (1. 206). but was soon cured of her ailment. The 
prose of the whole story is given in the following passage from a 
letter of Byron's written in July, 1823 (originally in Italian) : 

" It is singular enough, that when very young, I formed a strong 
attachment for the grand-niece and heiress of Mr. Chaworth [whom 
Byron's grand-uncle had killed in a duel], who stood in the same de- 
gree of relationship as myself to Lord Byron [the grand-uncle afore- 
said] ; and at one time it was thought that the two families would have 
been united in us. She was two years older than I was, and we were 
very much together in our youth. She married a man of an old and 
honourable family; but her marriage was not a happier one than my 
own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable, but there was no 
sympathy between their characters, and a separation took place. I 
have not seen her for many years. When an occasion offered, I was 
upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, 
who has always had more influence over me than anyone else, per- 
suaded me not to do it. ' For,' said she, ' if you go, you will fall in love 
again, and then there will be a scene ; one step will lead to another, 
et cela/era uji eclat, etc' I was guided by these reasons,* and shortly 
after I married ; with what result it is useless to say. Mrs. C, some 
time after, being separated from her husband, became insane; but she 

♦ Cf. the verse (" Well ! thou art happy" ) addressed to Mrs. Cha- 
worth in 1808, on the occasion of his last visit : 

" I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 
Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 
* * * * 

Away ! away ! my early dream 

Remembrance never must awake : 
Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
My foolish heart be still, or break." 



NOTES 377 

has since recovered her reason, and is, I believe, reconciled to her 
husband." 

It was while living at Nottingham in 1803 (he was then hardly 
fifteen) that his attachment to Miss Chaworth, whose family re- 
sided at Annesley, near Nottingham and New stead, began. Their 
intimacy lasted for but six weeks. In the following year he bade 
her the **last" farewell from the hill near Annesley, as described 
in the poem. In 1805 she was married to Mr. John Musters. Her 
death occurred in 1832. 

In rhetorical strvicture the matter of the poem is skilfully dis- 
posed. Like some modern spectacular plays the poem presents a 
series of scenes or episodes without much connecting material. 
But that is not inappropriate for a " Dream." The metrical form 
is blank verse, a form which Byron generally handles with only 
moderate success. Here it seems but indifferently adapted to the 
lyrical impulse of the poem, especially as the verse is rather 
epical or dramatic in form and abounds in "run-on" lines; 
although its plainness suggests, appropriately enough, sombre- 
ness and the monotony of a heavy dream. This effect is enforced 
by the absence of ornament and the restrained harmony of the 
diction. Devices of repetition, as in the formulas for opening 
each section (-'A change came over the spirit of my dream"), 
or in the lines 

" And both were youn<^, and one was beautiful ; 
And both were young, yet not aUke in youth," 
help out the lyrical effect. 

213 : 12. Cf. 'Childe Harold' 11, ii : 

" Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were." 

213 : 18. Cf. ' Parisina' III, 82 : 

" The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past." 

213 : 19-22. Cf. -Childe Harold' IV, v (p. 93, above). 

213 : 25. Capable of years. An elliptical phrase partly ex- 
plained in the next line. 

214 : 28 ff. The scene described is after Nature — the hill (1. 35) 
near Annesley, as now, except that the "peculiar diadem of 
trees " has been cut down. 



378 NOTES 

214 : 44-45- What is the full import of this simile ? — how many- 
qualities of "■ the maid " are implied in it? 

215 ; 84. This description of his emotions, however heightened 
poetically, helps us to understand one point at least in Byron's 
peculiar temperament. Compare ' Don Juan ' VI, cvi ; 

*' It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
Can never be described ; we all have heard. 
And some of us have felt thus ' all amort, ^ 
When things beyond the common have occurred." 

216 : 105 fif. Cf. 'Childe Harold' I, vi. 

216 : 114-125. "This is true 'keeping,' — an Eastern picture 
perfect in its foreground and distance and sky, and no part of 
which is so dwelt upon or laboured as to obscure the principal 
figure" (Sir Walter Scott). Prof. Kolbing thinks that the scene 
can be identified with the ruins of Corinth. Cf. Byron's poem 
'The Siege of Corinth,' esp. sect, xviii. 

218: 179. -/l/d'A^wr/zf/j', the malady which has afflicted the lady's 
lover, the narrator, as contrasted with the ' phrenzy ' of the lady 
herself. The one robs things of their illusion and glamour ; the 
other at least leaves one monarch 'of a fantastic realm.' 

218 : 185 ff. A picture of the poet's situation in the evil days 
after the death of his mother and so many of his earlier friends, 
and especially after the separation from his wife and the quarrel 
with her family ("beings which . . . were at war with him "). The 
untempered ill-will of the public after this event is doubtless also 
glanced at. 

218 : 191. Mithridates of Pontus, who is said to have circum- 
vented the plots of his enemies to poison him by so inuring his 
system by degrees -to the use of poisons that they came to have no 
effect upon him when taken. 

219 : 195. Cf. 'Childe Harold' III, xiii (p. 55 above) ; also IV. 
clxxvii-viii (p. 151). 

219 : 199. Cf. 'Manfred' II, ii, 70, and III, iv, 3 (above, pp 
186, 207). 

219 : 200-20I recall again 'Manfred' II, ii, 60-74 (p. 186). 



NOTES 379 



DARKNESS. 

Written in Switzerland in July, 1816, Published with 'The 
Prisoner of Chillon ' in the same year. Similar visions of the 
end of things were written in numbers both before and after 
Byron's poem. Many of these Prof. Kolbiiig describes in his 
edition of ' The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems.* Such 
were; (i) 'The Last Man,' Lond. 1806, where the picture drawn 
has many points of resemblance with Byron's. Byron's immedi- 
ate suggestion, however, may have been found in the Old Testa- 
ment. Cf. 'Jeremiah,' IV, 23, 24, 25. 

" I beheld the earth, and lo ! it was without form and void ; and the 
heavens, and they had no light. ... I beheld, and lo ! there was no 
man, and all the birds of the heavens were fled. I beheld, and lo ! the 
fruitful place was a wilderness, and all the cities thereof were broken 
down. ..." ' Ezekiel ' xxxii, 7,8: "I will cover the heaven and 
make the stars thereof dark ; I will cover the sun with a cloud, and 
the moon shall not give her light. All the bright lights of heaven 
I will make dark over thee, and set darkness upon thy land, saith the 
Lord God." 

Cf. also 'Joel' II, 30-31; 'Revelation,' VI, etc. (2) Camp- 
bell's poem 'The Last Man' ("All worldly shapes shall melt in 
gloom," etc.) appeared in 1823. It bears a certain resemblance 
to Byron's poem, but doubtless, as Campbell claims, was written 
independently. (3) In the 'Poetical Miscellanies of Harlequin 
Proteus ' appeared a poem entitled ' The World's End ' ; and (4) in 
'The European Magazine,' 18:6, one on 'The Death of the 
World,' both modelled on Byron. Better known is (5) Mrs. Shel- 
ley's romance 'The Last Man,' 1816. (6) Thomas Hood's 'Last 
Man,' 1826, a burlesque poem on the same theme. For other 
treatments of the same subject the reader is referred to Prof. 
Kolbing's edition, 213, 222, 224, 234 ft". 

The poem in the original MS. was first entitled 'A Dream.' 
So far as relates to the structure of tlie poem, three stages are 
apparent in the description: (i) the condition of things just before 
the enc (11. 1-54); (2) the end of the two last men (11. 55-69), and 
(3) the state of the world when life has finally disappeared (U. 
69-82). 



380 JVOTES 

221 ; 50. Till hunger clung thenu Cf. 'Macbeth' V, v, 40: 
" Till famine cling thee," i.e., " Till famine shrivel thee up.' 

222 : 73 ff. Byron here may have taken the description of the 
calm (11. no fif.) in the ' Ancient Mariner ' as a model. 

MAZEPPA. 

Written mainly in the latter part of 1818. Not published till 
1819. The first eight sections give the setting of the poem, which 
is based on historical events. After the battle of Pultowa in 1709, 
in which Peter the Great defeated the Swedish forces under 
Charles XII, the latter, accompanied, among others, by his ally, 
the Cossack chieftain Mazeppa, fled to take refuge among fhe 
Turks. In the course of their flight they snatch a night's repose 
in the depth of the forest. Charles praises Mazeppa 's endurance 
and horsemanship. 

" Mazeppa answer'd — ' I'Jl betide 

The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! ' " 

This answer excites Charles' curiosity, and he induces the 
seventy-year-old chieftain to recall the days when he w^as twenty 
and to relate the tale. In his youth Mazeppa was a page at the 
court of the Polish king, John Casimir. On account of an intrigue 
with Theresa, the lady of a powerful Polish count, he was seized 
at the count's castle, and condemned to the punishment and fate 
related in sections ix and following of the poem. 

It is not improbable that, as Elze maintains ('Tife of Byron,' 
p. 138), ''in 'Mazeppa ' we have the idealized reflex of Byron's 
relation to the Countess Guiccioli; like her the object of Mazeppa's 
love is called Theresa, and the old Polish Count is perhaps the 
old Count Guiccioli." Against this supposition merely stands the 
fact that 'Mazeppa ' was begun before September 24, 18 18, when 
the poem is mentioned in a letter of Byron's as still incomplete, 
while his acquaintance with the Countess Guiccioli did not begin 
till the spring of 1819. But the first part of the poem, where 
Theresa is mentioned, may have been written last. For the 
portion of the story related in sections ix-xx, however, there is 
nothing to correspond in Byron's life. Here his treatment is 
objective. The source of this portion as well as of the whole of 



N07'£S 3S1 

the historical story is given by Byron in the ft>llowing extract 
from Voltaire's ' Histoire de Charles XII': 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gentilhomme Polo- 
nais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat de Padolie : il avait ete 
eleve page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris d sa cour quelque teinture 
des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la 
femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decouverte, le mari le fit 
lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et ie laissa aller en cet etat. Le 
cheval, qui etait du pays de I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, 
demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : 
il resta longtemps parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses con- 
tre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lumieres lui donna une grande 
consideration parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour 
en jour obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." 

More modern accounts alter the story in some particulars. 
Born, about 1645 and dying 17 10, Mazeppa had an adventurous 
career. Because of a quarrel in the palace of Jan Casimir, in 
which he was involved, he was exiled from the court. The fol- 
lowing account of his succeeding adventures is quoted from 
Schuyler's ' Peter the Great' (N. Y., 1884, voL II, p. 92): "He 
withdrew to his mother's estate in Volynia, where he became en- 
gaged in an intrigue with the wife of a neighbouring nobleman, 
Falbowski. On one of his visits he was waylaid by the injured 
husband ; was ignominiously stripped and bound to his horse. 
The spirited animal, frightened by the cuts of a whip and the 
firing of a pistol close to his ear, rushed furiously through woods 
and thickets, and brought his master home so torn and bleeding 
that he was hardly recognizable. Unable to meet his equals af- 
ter such an adventure, Mazeppa sought a refuge among the Cos- 
sacks." By means of his education and talents he soon rose to 
high position, becoming eventually Hetman or governor of the 
Cossacks. For over twenty years he remained faithful to his 
overlord, Peter the Great. Just before the battle of Pultowa, in 
1709, however, he deserted to Charles, with whom he shared de- 
feat and exile till his death in 17 10. 

The poem is written in the metre and somewhat in the style of 
the early verse-tales of Byron's London period. The treatment, 
however, is less melodramatic and more dramatic, direct, and 
forcible. For vividness, movement, power of realization, intense 



382 NOTES 

feeling, and general effectiveness of style Byron has hardly else- 
where surpassed this poem. The motives which it suggests 
have been treated in brilliant musical form by the composer 
Liszt, in his symphonic poem entitled 'Mazeppa.' See also 
Victor Hugo's poem, 'Mazeppa' (in ' Les Orientales,' xxxiv), — a 
free paraphrase of Byron, plus an application of the text : the 
steed is his genius who bears the poet at its will, threatened by 
malevolent spirits (birds and beasts of prey), across the wide 
deserts of the world towards the horizon of the ideal. Who can 
tell his sufferings? He reaches the end, he falls at last, — and 
rises up, a king ! 

Again, as in 'Manfred,' in 'The Prisoner of Chillon,' and in 
so many other of Byron's poems, the leading motive is, as Dr. 
Englaender points out, the depicting of silent suffering and heroic 
endurance. The admiration for characters of superhuman forti- 
tude is innate with Byron and influences all his poetry. 

The contemporary interest in the name of Mazeppa and in the 
land of his reign is attested by the anonym.ous verse-romance en- 
titled 'The Cossack, a Poem in three Cantcs,' published at Lon- 
don in 1815. Mazeppa appears at section xi of the second canto. 
He, however, is not the hero, but Kouteskoff, a minor Cossack 
chieftain. There is nothing to indicate that Byron knew this 
poem. 

Suggestions for the scenery of the poem Byron may have taken 
from Voltaire's ' Charles XII ' : " Depuis Grodno jusq'au Borys- 
thene en tirant vers I'orient, ce sont des marais, des deserts, des 
forets immenses." ... " un desert, ou ils ne voyaientni huttes ni 
tentes, ni hommes ni animaux, ni chemins; tout y manquait jusqu'a 
I'eau meme." [Cf. ' Mazeppa ' xvii, 5-8.] The poet's aim is to 
make his landscape and the touches of Nature which he intro- 
duces suggest a certain mood and convey a certain impression. 
This impression is, in the words of Dr. Englaender, "the awful 
feeling of the illimitable, called forth by the unbounded solitudes 
and wastes of Nature, and a mournful feeling of yearning and 
sadness allied to the former, which especially finds expression iw 
the tireless onward flight of Mazeppa's steed." 

The art is noteworthy with which the phenomena of Nature, 
the appearances of the region traversed in the Ride, are chosen 



NOTES 3^3 

and depicted as they might be seen and imagined by one bound 
as Mazeppa was, and suffering as he was. The poet's imagina- 
tion has thoroughly entered into the character and the situation. 
Romantic as the tale is, the manner of telling it is realistic in the 
best sense. 

The verse is the free four-foot or "octosyllabic" measure used 
by Scott, Coleridge, and others of the Romantic period, and by 
Byron himself in many of the early narrative poems, in 'The 
Prisoner o^ Chillon, ' and elsewhere. Occasionally lines of three 
feet occur. The movement is iambic or ascending. The rhymes 
are freely varied, occasionally running in couplet form for a num- 
ber of lines, but soon changing to alternate rhymes, or even more 
complicated arrangements, as the ebb and flow of the thought 
suggest. Alliteration is freely but not profusely employed, to 
lend fluency and emphasis to the verse. 

For the ride itself, compare, in 'The Giaour,' 11. i8o ff., the 
account of the wild ride of the hero, 

" Who thundering comes on blackest steed," etc. 

An interesting monograph on the poem has been written by Dr. 
E. Englaender, 'Lord Byron's Mazeppa, eine Studie ' (Berlin, 
1897). 

223 : ix, 3. Ukraine. District in southern Russia, north of 
the Black Sea and in the valley of the Dnieper, inhabited by the 
Cossacks. 

223-5 : X. The story of the revenge which Mazeppa afterwards 
took for his sufferings comes in appropriately at this point, firstly, 
because it is in character for the proud old warrior to let his hear- 
ers know without delay that he was not wronged with impunity ; 
and, secondly, because if put at the close of the poem it would 
disturb the effect of reconcilement and peaceful ending there in- 
troduced. 

225 : xi, 15. Spahi. Turkish cavalryman. 

226 ; xii, 13-18. Byron is not squeamish about introducing 
images of mere horror. Here, of course, this image emphasizes 
the dramatic effect : it is quite in keeping from the mouth of the 
wild Cossack warrior. In itself, moreover, it adds to the efiect 
of barbarous circumstances and feelings which the poem aims to 
produce. These are the things which Mazeppa thought of in his 



3^4 NOTES 

terror and agony. We should not feel them if he concealed them, 
or if he expressed his thought in more chastened symbols. 

227: xii, 31. Do wolves run in " trot)ps " or packs except 
during the winter ? 

228 : xiii, 19 ff. It is perhaps in his psychology, in his por- 
trayal of states of mind, in this poem, that Byron's art is most 
extraordinary. In such a touch as 

" but could not make 
My senses climb up from below," 

and in all that follows there is, or (what is quite as important for 
poetry) at least there seems to be, absolute fidelity to fact and to 
the laws of psychology. In this respect is there an advance on 
the art of ' The Prisoner of Chillon ' ? 

Compare Coleridge's 'The Ancient Mariner,' his suffering, 
swoons, and hallucinations. 

229 : xiv, 7. Cf. * Anc. Mariner,' 62 : '-Like noises in a 
sv/ound." 

230 : xiv, 24. What is the effect of the sudden introduction of 
the three-foot line ? Is the device used for similar effects else- 
where in the poem, as, for example, in xv, 4, 9, 14, 24 ; xvii, 9, 
34. 39, 63, 78, 83, 95, etc. ? 

230 : xiv, 30. Why ' suspended pangs ' ? and, 19, why '• hol- 
Io7v trance ' ? How do these epitliets enlarge their nouns ? 

230 : XV, 3. Does this line exhibit expressive tone-color? 

230 : XV, 4. The inverted rhythm of the first foot helps to ex- 
press the idea of effort. 

230 : XV, 10-13. Is the coloring true for moonlight effects ? 

230 : XV, 19-20. Is this properly a case of " pathetic fallacy " ? 
Would then an unfallacious form of statement have been equally 
dramatic and effective ? 

231 : xvi, 19 ff. During how many days has the ride con- 
tinued ? 

232 : xvii, 12. 7verst. More commonly written verst, — a Rus- 
sian measure of distance, about two-thirds of a mile. 

234 : xvii, 92-94. So Byron wrote in his Journal of February 18, 
1814 : " Is there anything beycmd ? Who knows ? He that can't 
tell. Who tells that there is ? He who don't know. And when shall 



NOTES 3^5 

he know ? Perhaps, when he don't expect, and generally when 
he don't wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not alike : 
it depends a good deal upon education, something upon nerves 
and habits, but most upon digestion." 

234 : xvii, 70-1 10. Is this passage of moralization out of place ? 
Is it sufficiently justified by the suggestion that it serves a purpose 
of relief and relaxation of attention in the progress of the story ? 

237 : XX, 16. Borysthenes. Ancient name of the river Dnieper, 
formerly the boundary between Poland and Russia, and, near its 
mouth, between Turkey and Russia. 

DON JUAN: THE SHIPWRECK 

(Canto II, Stanzas xxiv-lxxvi, Ixxviii-lxxx, Ixxxiii-cxi.) 

'Don Juan' was begun in the summer of 1818. The second 
canto was finished in January, 1819, and cantos I and II were 
published in July, 1819, cantos III-V in 1821, and the others at 
intervals in 1823 and 1824. The plan is even looser and more 
rambling than that of ' Childe Harold.' " I have no plan ; I had 
no plan ; but I had or have materials," wrote Byron to Murray. 
The poem carried on the vein opened up in ' Beppo,' and, in its 
author's words, was "meant to be a little quietly facetious upon 
everything." Nothing else quite like it exists in English, al- 
though 'The Monks and the Giants' (1817), by "the brothers 
Whistlecraft " (John Hookham Frere) is after the same models in 
Italian (Pulci and others) followed by Byron, and itself furnished 
Byron with many hints. The plot and spirit are Southern and 
Continental rather than English ; and the poem, although now by 
many accounted Byron's masterpiece for power, performance, and 
originality, affronted and baffled his own generation. Indeed, at 
this day, although it must be admitted that the poem is full of 
license,* and in some parts inevitably shocks most"accepted stand- 
ards of feeling and of ethics, the elementary distinction, as put 
by Taine, that " ' Don Juan ' is a satire on the abuses of the 
present state of society, and not an eulogy of vice," needs to be re- 

* " The soul of such writing is license : at least the liberty of that 
license, if one likes, — not that one should abuse it " (Byron to Murray, 
Aug. 12, 1819). 



386 NOTES 

peated. The poem is full of multiplex intentions and design, and 
the poet's meaning and mood in it may easily be mistaken unless 
the reader traces the author's way with footing fine. 

' Don Juan ' presents examples of a score of different styles and 
tones, — the mocking, the satirical, the gruesome, the realistic, the 
witty, the pathetic, the terrible mixed with the horrible, the vo- 
luptuous, the exalted, the pessimistic, and many others ; but the 
ground tone is always the familiar, the sportive, the mocking, and 
the facetious. Incongruity and burlesque (sometimes savage bur- 
lesque) is of the very design of the piece. This the reader must 
come prepared to accept. The style attempted is suggested by 
the author's motto, chosen from Horace : 

" Difficile est propria communia dicere." 

Half in jest, the poet again and again indulges in coiifidences 
with his readers, and discusses his plan. So, for example, canto 
I, stanzas cc-cciv : 

" My poem's epic, and is meant to be 
Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
A list of ships and captains, and kings reigning, 
New characters ; the episodes are three : 
A panoramic view of hell's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of Epic's no misnomer." Etc. 

The sensible reader of course knows in what spirit to take such 
badinage. 

The verse is the ottava rima stanza, composed of eight five- 
foot lines, rhyming abababc c. Byron poses in this poem as 
the anti-sentimentalist, and consequently avoids purposely poetic 
diction and smoothness of versification. The aim is to keep up 
the conversational and matter-of-fact tone and rhythm as far as is 
compatible with the maintenance of verse and stanza at all. 
Hence the unemphatic rhythm, marked by the utmost license ol 
inversion and substitution of feet within the line, the capricious 
variety of pauses and of run-on effects, and the wilfully queer 
rhymes. 

The frequent double rhymes have generally in themselves a 
slightly ludicrous effect, arising from the wrenching of the accent 



NOTES 387 

which often attends them, or which they at least suggest. Thus 
in the first stanza of the first selection here given, the rhymes 
"Leghorn," "was born," and "the m.orn " give this effect. 
Note also the effect produced by such rhymes as " Mon- 
cada " and "he had a," "trough of the sea" and "shattered 
the," " undone " and " London," " annuities" "true it is " and 
"Jew it is," "scanty" and "Dante," "we prided" and "and 
I did," and the like. The sentimentalist again is flouted by the 
poet's tantalizing device of introducing a digression just as the 
situation is becoming most thrilling, and as the emotion is mount- 
ing to its climax.* So it is in the account of the Shipwreck at 
stanzas numbered Ixiv to Ixvii. The Shipwreck episode, as a 
whole, however, is treated with more poetic seriousness than 
most parts of the poem. For poetical realism, sometimes brutal 
but always impressive, it stands alone. The sentence of a con- 
temporary (anonymous) critic stands confirmed by time, that 
"the copiousness and flexibility of the English language were 
never before so triumphantly approved," and that "the same 
compass of talent, 'the grave, the gay, the great, the small,' 
comic force, humour, m.etaphysics, and observation, boundless 
fancy and ethereal beauty, and curious knowledge, curiously ap- 
plied, have never been blended with the same felicity in any 
other poem." Or, as another phrased it, " ' Don Juan ' is by far the 
most admirable specimen of the mixture of ease, strength, gaiety, 
and seriousness extant in the whole body of English poetry." To 
these judgments should be added that of Goethe : " ' Don Juan ' 
is a thoroughly genial work, — misanthropical to the bitterest 
savageness, tender to the most exquisite delicacy of sweet feel- 
ings. . , , The technical execution of the verse is thoroughly in ac- 
cordance with the strange wild simplicity of the conception and 
plan : the poet no more thinks of polishing his phrase, than he 
does of flattering his kind ; and yet, when Ave examine the piece 
more narrowly, we feel that English poetry is in possession of 
what the German has never attained, a classically elegant comic 
style." t 

* Cf. above, p. 268, st. xcvi. 

t Cf. also Shelley's judgement upon the poem in his letter to Mrs. 
Shelley of August 10, 1821 (Works, ed, Buxton Fornian, Lend., 
1880, viii, 219). 



388 - NOTES 

The hero, whose name gives its title to the poem, is the Don 
Juan of legend, of Moliere's play and Mozart's opera, but placed 
in entirely new circumstances and treated with perfect freedom 
and levity. 

The present selection affords a fruitful opportunity to study the 
poet in his workshop. Byron's method of imagination and com- 
position was peculiar. Experience, and observation or reading, 
always supplied him with his immediate materials. "In my 
writings," Byron says, ''I have rarely described any character 
under a fictitious name: those of whom I have spoken have had 
their own. . . . But of real circumstances I have availed myself 
plentifully, both in the serious and the ludicrous — they are to 
poetry what landscapes are to the painter; but my figures are 
not portraits. It may even have happened, that I have seized on 
some events that have occurred under my own observation, or in 
my own family, as I would paint a view from my grounds, did it 
harmonize with my picture." And later (Aug. 23, 1821) and 
unequivocally: "Almost all 'Don Juan' is real life, either my 
own or from people I kncAV." So here, \\\ regard to the Ship- 
wreck, he wrote to Murray that ' * there was not a single circum- 
stance of it not taken from fact; not, indeed, from any single 
shipwreck, but all from actual facts of different wrecks." The 
idea of depicting a shipwreck had long lain dormant and growing 
in his mind. Moore informs us that, "in the year 1799, while 
Lord Byron was the pupil of Dr. Glennie, at Dulv/ich, among the 
books that lay accessible to the boys was a pamphlet entitled 
' Narrative of the Shipwreck of the Juno on the Coast of Arracan, 
in the year 1 795.' The pamphlet attracted but little public 
attention ; but among the young students of Dulwich Grove it was 
a favourite study ; and the impression which it left on the retentire 
mind of Byron may have had some share, perhaps, in suggesting 
that curious research through all the various accounts of Ship- 
wrecks upon record by which he prepared himself to depict, with 
such power, a scene of the same description in 'Don Juan.'" 
The manner in which he has handled his materials, often draw- 
ing upon the very words of his sources, suggests the similar use 
of his sources, such as Holinshed and Plutarch, by Shakspere in 
his historical plays. The editor of the 1833 edition of Byron's 
Works has gathered together the main correspondences between 



NOTES 3^9 

Byron's narrative and the originals.* These extracts, arranged 
in order as they were utilized in the poem, and forming a sort of 
corpus of the poet's materials, are reprinted below, with reference 
to the particular stanzas in which each is chiefly utilized. The 
proper names appended are those of the ships whose wrecks are 
recounted. Words which are directly incorporated into his 
narrative by the poet are italicized: 

Loss OF THE Hercules : " Night came on worse than the day 
had been; and a sudden shift ofzvind, about midnight, threw the ship 
into the trough of the sea, which struck her aft, tore away the rud- 
der, started the stern-post, and shattered the whole of her stern 
frame. The pumps were tm^nediately sounded, and in the course of 
a few minutes the water had increased io four feet, [xxvii.] . . . 
One gajig was instantly put on them, and the remainder of the people 
employed in getting up rice from the run of the ship, and heaving it 
over, to come at the leak, if possible. After three or four hundred 
bags were thrown into the sea, ive did get at it, and found the water 
rushing into the ship with astonishing rapidity; therefore we thrust 
sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, and every thing of the like 
description that could be got, into the opefting. [xxviii.] . . . Not- 
withstanding the pumps discharged ffty tons of water an hour, the 
ship certainly must have gone down, had not our expedients been 
attended with some success. The pumps, to the excellent construction 
of which I owe my life, were made by Mr. Mann of London.''^ 
[xxix.] 

Loss OF THE Centaur: '■'■As the next day advanced, the wea- 
ther appeared to moderate, the men continued incessantly at the 
pumps, and every exertion was made to keep the ship afloat. Scarce 
was tliis done, when a gust, exceeding in violence every thing of the 
kind I had ever seen, or could conceive, laid the ship on her beam 
ends, [xxx.] . . . The ship lay motionless, and, to all appearance, 
irrevocably overset. The ivater forsook the hold, and appeared be- 
tween decks, [xxxi,] . . . Immediately directions were given to cut 
azuay the main a7td mizen masts, trusting, when the ship righted, to 
be able to wear her. On cutting one or two lanyards, the mizen-mast 
ivent first over, but without producing the smallest effect on the ship, 
and, cutting the lanyard of one shroud, the main-mast followed. I 

* Besides the original pamphlets, cf. ' Shipwrecks and Disasters at 
Sea,' Edinburgh (Constable & Co.), 1812, 3 vols.; and Jas. S. Clarke, 
' Naufragia, or Historical Memoirs of Shipwrecks,' London, 1805, 2 
vols. 



39^ NOTES 

had the mortification to see the foremast and bowsprit also go over. 
On this, the ship iTnmediately righted with great violence." [xxxii.] 

Loss OF THE Abergavenny: "A midshipman was appointed to 
guard the spirit-room^ to repress that unhappy desire of a devoted 
crew to die in a state of intoxication. The sailors, though in other 
respects orderly in conduct, here pressed eagerly upon him. [xxxiii- 
XXXV.] . . . ' Give us some grog,' they exclaimed, ' it will be all one 
an hour hence.' — * I know we must die,' replied the gallant officer, 
coolly, ' but let us die like men ! ' — armed with a brace of pistols 
he kept his post, even while the ship was sinking, [xxxvi.] . . . How- 
ever, by great exertion of the chain-pump, we held our own. All 
who were not seamen by profession, had been employed in thrumtning 
a sail, which was passed under the ship's bottom, and I thought had 
some effect, [xxxviii-xxxix.] . , . The ship laboured so much, ihaXl 
could scarce hope she would swim till morning : our sufferings were 
very great y^r wa?tt of water, [xli.] , . , The weather again threat- 
ened, and by noon, it blew a storm. The ship laboured greatly ; the 
water appeared in the fore and after hold. The leathers were 
nearly consumed, and the chains of the pumps, by constant exertion, 
and the friction of the coils, were rendered almost useless, [xlii.] . . . 
At length, the carpenter came up from below, and told the crew, who 
were working at the pumps, he could do no Tnore for them. Seeing 
their efforts useless, many of them burst into tears, and ivept like chil- 
dren, [xliii.] , . , I perceived the ship settling by the head. It was 
not in my power to encourage the ship's company any longer with a 
prospect of safety, [xliv.] . . . Some appeared perfectly resigned, 
went to their hammocks, and desired their messmates to lash them 
in ; others were for securing themselves to gratings and small rafts ; 
but the most predominant idea was that of putting on their best and 
cleanest clothes. The boats were got over the side." [xlv.] 

Wreck of the Sydney : " Eight bags of rice, six flasks of wine, 
and a small quantity of salted beef and pork, were put into the long 
boat, as provisions for the whole." [xlvi-xlvii,] 

The Centaur : " The yawl was stove alongside and sunk." 

Loss OF the Wellington: " One oar was erected yi^r a main- 
mast, and the other bent to the breadth of the blankets for a sail." 
[xlviii.] 

The Centaur : "As rafts had been mentioned by the carpenter, I 
thought it right to make the attempt. It was impossible for any man 
to deceive himself with the hopes of being saved on a raft in such a sea 
as this". [1.] 

Loss OF the Pandora . Spars, booms, hencoops, and every thing 
buoyant, were therefore cast loose, that the men might have some 
chance to save themselves ; for the boats were at some distance." [li.l 



NOTES 391 

Loss OF THE Lady Hobart : "We had scarcely quitted the ship, 
when she gave a heavy lurch to port, and then went down, headfore- 
most." 

The Pandora: " At this instant, one of the officers told the captain 
she was going down, and bidding him farewell, leaped overboard : the 
crew had just time to leap overboard, which they did, uttering a most 
dreadful yell." 

Shipwreck of the Betsey: "The boat, being fastened to the 
rigging, was no sooner cleared of the greatest part of the water, than 
a dog of mine came to me running along the gunwale. / took him in." 
[Iviii.] 

Bligh's Open Boat Navigation: "It blew a violent storm, so 
that betiveen the seas the sail was becalmed ; and when on the top 
of the wave, it was too much to be set, but we could not venture 
to take it in, for we were in very imminent danger and distress ; the 
sea curling over the stern of the boat, which obliged us to bale 
with all our might." 

The Centaur: " Before it was dark a blanket \va.s discovered in 
the boat. This was immediately bent to one of the stretchers, and 
under it, as a sail, we scudded all night, in expectation of being swal- 
lowed by every wave." [Ixi.] 

Bligh : " The sun rose red and fiery, a sure indication of a 
severe gale of wind. . . . We could do nothing more tlian run 
before the sea, ... I served a tea-spoonful of rum to every person. 
The bread we found was damaged diXidi rotten." [Ixii.] 

"... As our lodging was very wretched and confined for want of 
room, I endeavoured to remedy this defect, by putting ourselves at watch 
and watch ; so that one half always sat up, ivhile the other half lay 
down in |the bottom of the boat, with nothing to cover us but the 
heavens. [Ixiii.] . . . The fourth day came and not a breath of air." 
[Ixx.] 

Shipwreck of the Betsey: " The fourth day we began to suffer 
exceedingly from hunger and thirst. I then seized my dog, and plunged 
my knife into its throat. We caught his blood in the hat, receiving in 
our hands and drinking what ran over ; we afterwards drank in turn 
out of the hat, and felt ourselves refreshed." [Ixx.] 

Sufferings of the Crew of the Thomas: "Day after day 
having passed, and the cravings of hunger pressing hard upon them, 
they fell upon the horrible and dreadful expedient of eating each other ; 
and in order to prevent any contention about who should become the 
food of the others, they cast lots to determine the sufferer." [Ixxiv- 
Ixxv.] 

Famine in the American Ship Peggy: " The lots were drawn : 
the captain , . . wrote upon slips of paper the name of each man, folded 



392 NOTES 

them up, put them into a hat, and shook them together. The crew, 
meanwhile, preserved an awful silence ; each eye was fixed and each 
mouth open, while terror was strongly impressed upon every counte- 
nance." [Ixxv.] 

The Thomas : " He requested to be bled to death, the surgeon be- 
ing with them, and having his case of instruments in his pocket when 
he quitted the ship. [Ixxvi.] . . . Those who glutted themselves with 
human flesh and gore, and whose stomachs retained the unnatural 
food, soon perished with raging insanity." [Ixxix.] 

The Centaur: "In the evening there came on a squall, which 
brought the most seasonable relief, as it was accompanied with heavy 
rain : we had no means of catching it, but by spreading out our 
clothes ; catching the drops as they fell, or squeezing them out of our 
clothes." [Ixxxiv-lxxxv.] 

The Juno: " I particularly remember the following instances: — 
Mr. Wade's boy, a stout healthy lad, died early and almost without a 
groan ; while another, of the same age, but of a less promising appear- 
ance, held out much longer. Their fathers were both in the fore-top, 
when the boys were taken ill. Wade, hearing of his son's illness, an- 
swered, with indifference, that ' he could do 7iothing for him,' and left 
him to his fate. The other father hurried down. By that time only 
three or four planks of the quarter-deck remained, just over the 
weather-quarter gallery. To this point the unhappy man led his son, 
making him fast to the rail, to prevent his being washed away. . . ". 
Whenever the boy was seized with a fit of retching, the father Hfted 
him up and wiped away the foam from his lips; and if a shower came, 
he made him open his mouth to receive the drops, or gently squeezed 
them into it from a rag. . . In this affecting situation both remained 
four or five days, till the boy expired. The unfortunate parent, as if 
unwilling to believe the fact, raised the body, looked wistfully at it, 
and when he could no longer entertain any doubt, watched it in silence 
until it was carried off by sea ; then, wrapping himself in a piece of 
canvas, sunk down and rose no more ; though he must have lived 
two days longer, as we judged from the quivering of his li?nbs, when 
a wave broke over him." [Ixxxvii-xc] 

The Lady Hobart : '■'■About this time a beautiful white bird, 
web footed, and not unlike a dove ifi size and plumage, hovered over 
the mast-head of the cutter, and, notwithstanding the pitching of the 
boat, frequently attempted to perch on it, and continued to flutter 
there till dark. Trifling as this circumstance may appear, it was 
considered by us all as z. propitious omen, [xciv.] ... I found it neces- 
sary to caution the people against being deceived by the appearance 
of land, or calling out till they were convinced of the reality, more 
especially as fog-banks are often mistaken for land : several of the 



NOTES 393 

poor fellows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed they heard breakers, 
and some the firing of guns, [xcvi.] . . . The joy at a speedy relief 
affected us all in a most remarkable way. Many burst into tears ; 
some looked at each other with a stupid stare, as if doubtful of the 
reality of what they saw ; while several were in such a lethargic con- 
dition, that no animating words could rouse them to exertion. At 
this affecting period, I proposed offering up our solemn thanks to 
Heaven for the miraculous deliverance." [xcvii-xcviii.] 

The Centaur: '■'■At length one of them broke into a most immoder- 
ate swearing fit of joy, which I could not restrain, and declared, that 
he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not land." 
[xcvii.] 

The Thomas: "After having suffered the horrors of hunger and 
thirst for many days, they providentially took a small turtle whilst 
floating asleep on the surface of the water." [xcix.] 

Bligh : "Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our limbs 
were full of sores, and we were clothed in rags." 

Escape of Deserters from St. Helena: "They discovered 
land right ahead, and steered for it. There being a very heavy surf 
they endeavoured to turn the boat's head to it, which, from weakness, 
they were unable to complete, and soon afterwards the boat upset." 

Don Juan, after various adventures in Spain, the land of his 
birth, has been sent abroad to travel. Our narrative begins in 
the midst of his voyage from Cadiz bound for Leghorn. 

238 : XXV, 2. licentiate, i.e., having taken a degree or license 
to teach. Cf. the French, licenci^. 

241 : xxxiv, 4-5. Cf. Spenser's 'Faerie Queene ' II, xii, st. 
Ixxi. 

242 : xxxvii, 8. like Sancho Panca. So written for the sake 
of the rhyme. Regularly Sancho Panza. The faithful follower 
of Don Quixote in Cervantes' famous story. 

242 : xxxviii. thrimim'd a sail. Inserting short pieces of rope- 
yarn in a sail, making a rough surface, which, applied to the 
opening, might stop the leak. 

244 : xliv, 4. A touch perhaps suggested by Erasmus' famous 
dialogue, ' The Shipwreck,' in his ' Colloquies,' where, in a similar 
situation, among other vows there is one of a gigantic candle to 
St. Christopher if he should bring the petitioner off alive. 

245 : xlix, 6-8. The curiosa felicitas of phrasing is not often 
Byron's forte. Here, however, there is classical perfection of 
phrase. The dim, desolate dee^ — what three words could more 



394 NOTES 

perfectly convey both the picture and the emotion than these? 
Cf. stanza.ciii, 1. 8 : "the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep." 

250 : Ixvi, 8. the Argo, in which Jason and his comrades made 
their voyage in search of the Golden Fleece. 

252 : Ixxiv, 8. Jtdias letter. The letter sent Juan by his 
mistress as he is about to sail ; described in canto I, stanzas cxci- 
cxcviii. 

254 : Ixxxiii. The story of Ugolino, who perished of hunger 
in "The Tower of Famine," and whom Dante saw in Hell 
gnawing the head of his arch-enemy, is related in 'The Inferno,' 
canto xxxii, 124 ff. and canto xxxiii, 1-90. What aesthetic difference 
is there between Byron's use of the Horrible and Dante's ? 

254 : Ixxxiv. Cf. in the 'Ancient Mariner,' Part III, the de- 
scription of the thirst of the ship's crew. 

255 : Ixxvi. The allusion is to the story of the rich man and 
Lazarus in the Bible. Cf. ' St. Luke ' xvi, 19-26. Cf. D. G. 
Rossetti's sonnet ' Lost Days ' : 

" Such spilt water as in dreams must cheat 
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway." 

258 : xcvi. 3. yet now they were so low. The meaning intended 
is given more clearly in the first reading of Byron's MS. for which 
the present was substituted: "but their spirits were so low." 

258 : xcix, 1-3. The hint for this incident Byron may have 
taken from his own experience. In describing the voyage from 
Gibraltar to Malta, Gait, who was a fellow-passenger, writes, in 
his 'Life of Byron' : "In the calms the jolly-boat was several 
times lowered; and on one of these occasions his lordship with 
the captain caught a turtle." 

260 : cv, 6-8. The amiable vanity of boasting of this feat (a 
vanity here more than redeemed by the exquisitely ludicrous and 
epigrammatic turn of the verse) never left Lord Byron. Again and 
again he referred to the exploit in his letters and conversation. 
For a circumstantial account see his letter to Murray, February 
21, 1821. 

261 : cviii. Compare the account of the casting ashore of 
Ulysses in the ' Odyssey,' Bk. V, near the end. This account, to- 
gether with that of Nausicaa's reception of him in Bk. VI may 



NOTES 395 

have suggested to Byron the present passage, as well as that which 
follows relating Juan's rescue by Haidee. 

DON JUAN: 'THE ISLES OF GREECE.* 
(Canto III, Stanzas Ixxxv-cxi.) 

The selection here chosen presents in short compass a fair ex- 
ample of the range, variety, audacity, ease, verve, wit, lyric 
enthusiasm, satire, and tender pathos which are so sti-angely and 
inextricably mingled throughout this poem. 

After the shipwreck Juan is rescued by Haidee, the daughter 
of Lambro, a Greek pirate chieftain, lord of the isle on whose 
strand Juan is thrown. During Lambro's absence Haidee en- 
tertains Juan with festivities in her father's halls. A native poet 
is present, and the selection opens with the account of his talents. 
After the song ("The Isles of Greece") placed in his mouth, 
Byron takes up the theme and comments on it, speaking in his 
own person. 

262 : Ixxxv-vi. On this passage cf. Ruskin, 'Fiction, Fair 
and Foul ' 53 : " Note first here . . . the concentrating and fore- 
telling power. . . . Then, note the estimate of height and depth 
in poetry, swept in an instant, 'high lyric to low rational.' Pin- 
dar to Pope (knowing Pope's height, too, all the while, no man 
better); then, the poetic power of France — resumed in a word — 
Beranger; then the cut at Marmion, entirely deserved . . . yet 
kindly given, for everything he names in these two stanzas is the 
best of its kind; then Romance in Spain on — \X\^Iast war {present 
war not being to Spanish poetical taste), then, Goethe, the real 
heart of all Germany, and last, the aping of the Trecentisti which 
has since consummated itself in Pre-Raphaelitism ! . . . Lastly 
comes the mock at himself — the modern English Greek . . . and 
then — to amazement, forth he thunders in his Achilles voice." 

262 : Ixxxv, 4. Qa ira. The famous revolutionary song of the 
French, 1789, — "It will speed." 

7. Practically all of Pindar's extant poetry consists of the 
Epinikian Odes, in celebration of the victors in the Greek games. 
Many of these, as, for example, the first six Olympian Odes, cele- 
brate the winners in "horse-races," as their nominal subjects. 

262 : Ixxxvi, I. The contemporary chansons of Beranger and 
Desaugiers were very popular at this period. 



39^ NOTES 

6. a quarto tale. Such as Scott and Byron himself were pour- 
ing forth. 

6. Madame de Stael's famous book ' De TAUemagne,' in which, 
among other subjects, Goethe and other German authors are dis- 
cussed, appeared in i8io. 

7. the Trecentisti. The Italian poets and artists of the four- 
teenth century. 

263, The Song, i, 4. Delos^ the smallest island of the Cy- 
clades in the ^Egean, and the birthplace of Apollo, was fabled to 
have risen from the sea. 

263, 2, I. The Scian muse is Homer (who wielded " the 
hero's harp "). Scio (or Chios) was one of the seven cities which 
claimed to be the birthplace of Homer. The Teian viuse^ Anacreon, 
bom at Teios, in Asia Minor, — the singer of love and wine. 

6. Islands of the Blest., Insulae Fortunatae, islands mentioned 
in Greek legend as existing in the far Atlantic, where the souls 
of the blessed were conveyed after death. Cf. Andrew Lang's 
poem ' The Fortunate Islands ' (a paraphrase from Lucian). 

265, II, 4. Forced to flee from his native land, Anacreon was 
kindly received by Polycrates, tyrant of Samos. 

265, 12. For several years previous to the battle of Marathon, 
in which he proved himself ''Freedom's best and bravest friend," 
Miltiades reigned as "tyrant" over the Chersonesus. 

265, 13, 2. SulVs rock. Suli is a fortress upon a rocky 
height on the river Suli, about thirty miles southwest of Janina. 
Farga, a town on the coast of Epirus opposite the island of Paxo. 

6. The Heraclidae, or descendants of Hercules, who conquered 
the Peloponnesus in the period before the Trojan war, are here 
put for the Greeks as a whole. 

265, 16. Sunium, a promontory at the southern extremity of 
Attica, where, on the cliff three hundred feet above the sea, are the 
ruins of a temple of Athene. Byron's note refers to Sophocles' 
* Ajax,' 12 17 ff. : 

" O, could I be where the woody foreland, washsd by the wave> 
beetles o'er the main, 'neath Sunium's lofty plain." 

266 : Ixxxvii, 6. Horace's 

' ' si vis me flere, dolendum est 
Primum ipsi tibi " (' Ars Poetica,' 102-3). 



NOTES 397 

May we justly infer from the mocking tone of this stanza that 
the poet in this case has not felt that which he makes us feel so 
keenly in the noble lyric which precedes ? Or is the change of 
tone rather a sign of intenser feeling ? 

267 : xc, 8. 'The Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough,' 
by William Coxe, Archdeacon of Wiltshire, in three volumes, ap- 
peared at London in 1818-19. 

267 : xci, 5. Cf. the Life of Milton, in Johnson's 'Lives of the 
Poets.' 

267 : xcii, 3. Suetonius and Plutarch relate nothing of " Caesar's 
earliest acts " before he was fifteen or sixteen years of age. To 
the subject of " Titus' youth " Suetonius devotes a couple of short 
chapters. 

4. An edition of Bums, with an Account of his Life by Dr. 
James Currie, was published at Liverpool in 1800. 

5. CromwelV s pranks. The early life of Cromwell has been 
the subject of many stories of wildness and debauchery, princi- 
pally the invention of cavaliers and royalists. 

In Mark Noble's 'Memoirs of the Cromwell Family,' 1787, 
vol. I, pp. 93 ff., (where possibly Byron may have read them), 
many of these stories are related, including accounts of the young 
Cromwell's depredations upon orchards and dove-houses, his sup- 
posed boyhood meeting and combat with the young Prince 
Charles, his prowess in athletic sports, and his roystering. These 
stories have been investigated in Sanford's ' Studies and Illustra- 
tions of the Great Rebellion, ' 1 74-268. 

267 : xciii, 1-2. Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth started 
out with democratic, or at least republican, principles, which, to 
Byron's implacable indignation, they afterwards abandoned. The 
two former met in 1794 and formed their scheme of " Pantisoc- 
racy," for a communistic colony on the banks of the Susquehanna. 
The question "whether the marriage contract shall be dissolved, 
if agreeable to one or both parties," was under discussion. 
(Hence, Byron's " All are not moralists.") Cf. Byron's 'Obser- 
vations upon an Article in Blackwood's Magazine,' in 1820: 
"He [Southey] was one of the projectors of a scheme called 
' pantisoci-acy, ' for having all things, including women, in com- 
mon . . . and he sets vip as a moralist." 



398 NO TKS 

Cf. J. D. Campbell's Introduction to the Globe edition of Cole- 
ridge's Poems, p. xxi. 

3. Wordsworth was appointed Distributor of Stamps for the 
County of Westmoreland {not exciseman) in March, 1813. 

4. The allusion is to 'The Excursion,' originally called 'The 
Pedlar' by Wordsworth, and referred to as "the Pedlar poem" 
by Dorothy Wordsworth in ' The Alfoxden Journal. ' 

6. Coleridge's contributions to the London 'Morning Post' 
began in 1798. 

7-8. Southey married Edith Fricker, Nov. 14, 1795, and Cole- 
ridge her sister Sara, Oct. 4, 1795. Both were originally resi- 
dents of Bristol, not Bath, and poor girls, but not "milliners" 
nor " partners." 

268 : xciv, 7. 'The Excursion' was published in 1814. 

268 : xcv, 4. Joanna Southcote. The fanatic founder of a sect 
of religious enthusiasts. She proclaimed that she was to become 
the mother of a second Shiloh. 

8. The physicians certified that she had a dropsy and was not 
pregnant ; and so it was. 

269 : xcviii, 2. It is obvious that the emphasis is maliciously 
on '■'■sometimes." 

4. Wordsworth's 'The Waggoner, ' composed in 1805, was pub- 
lished in 1819. 

5-8. So in ' Peter Bell,' 11. 3-5 : 

" But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little boat 
Shaped like the crescent-moon." 

269 : xcix, 4. Medea, after killing her children, is fabled to 
have fled from Jason's vengeance through the air upon a chariot 
drawn by winged dragons. 

269 : c. 8. Byron has reference to a sentence in Wordsworth's 
essay supplementary to his preface of 1815 : "The verses of 
Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgotten." 

270 : civ. Cf. the Introduction, above, p. 26. 

270 : civ, 1-2. In the first draught, these lines ran : 

" Are not these pretty stanzas ? — Some folks say, 
Downright in print — that I have no devotion." 

Did the poet improve by altering ? 



NOTES 399 

271 : cv, 4. The Adrian wave. The Adriatic, named from 
the ancient Etruscan town of Adria, at one time on its shores. 
Ravenna, now six miles from the sea, formerly stood on its shores, 
and in Byron's time and long before, was surrounded with a pine 
forest. Since his day fire and frost have destroyed the greater 
part of this forest. 

LI. 6-7. The references are to Boccaccio's Eighth Novel of 
the Fifth Day of the 'Decameron,' and to Dryden's translation 
'Theodore and Honoria,' the scene of which is at Ravenna and 
in the surrounding forest. 

271 : cvi, 5-8. The references are to the events of the tale as 
told by Boccaccio and Dryden — which see. 

271 : cvii. A paraphrase of a fragment of Sappho, to which 
Byron in a note refers : 

'EcTTrepe, TraVra cpepels [(pepoju^, etc. 
"Evening, thou that bringest all that bright morning scattered; 
thou bringest the sheep, the goat, the child back to her mother." 
(Wharton's 'Sappho.') Cf. Tennyson, ' Locksley Hall Sixty 
Years After ' : 

" Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all t;ood 
things." 

272 : cviii. This stanza, like the preceding, is a paraphrase, 
and for its original Byron refers us to Dante's ' Purgatorio,' canto 
VIII, 11. 1-6, which are thus translated by E. H. Plumptre : 

" The hour was come which brings back yearning new 
To those far out at sea, and melts their hearts, 
The day that they have bid sweet friends adieu ; 
Whereat the pilgrim fresh with strong love starts, 
If he perchance hear bells, far ofT yet clear. 
Which seem to mourn the day's life that departs." 

272 : cix, 5. " See Suetonius for this fact." [Byron's note- 

273 : cxi, 8. See IloirjTiKTjs. The ' Poetics ' of Aristotle. 

DON JUAN : DEATH OF HAIDEE. 

(Canto IV, Stanzas LVI-LXXIII.) 

A passage of pure pathos, executed in exquisite keeping. One 
of the masterpieces of Byron's art. 



400 NOTES 

Lambro, Haidee's father, returning secretly after an absence 
which had endured so long that his daughter believed him dead, 
finds Haidee in the company of her lover, Juan. Juan is over- 
come by Lambro's retainers, and falls, in Haidee's sight, severely 
wounded, — as she believes, dead. At this point, turning from 
Juan to Haidee, the narrative begins in the selection here given. 

273 : Iviii, 1-2. "This is no very uncommon effect of the vio- 
lence of conflicting and different passions. . . . Before I was six- 
teen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance of the 
same effect of mixed passions upon a young person. . . ." [Byron's 
note. 

274 : Ixi, 4. The adversative "but" in this line is full of im- 
plication. The sense is, the fair Venus may be of marble and so 
lifeless, but she is for that very reason forever fair. Cf. Keats' 
' Ode to a Grecian Urn' ; 

" Forever wilt thou love and she be fair." 

The Venus which the poet has in mind is the Venus de Medici, 
described in ' Childe Harold,' IV, xlix, 1. 6. Cf. 'Childe Harold,' 
IV, cxl. 

7-8. i.e., 'Their energy, which is like that of life, is the 
cause of their impressive effect as statues, yet it looks not like 
life, because statues are unchanging, being of marble.' 

276 : Ixviii, 4. retrace. Apparently here = recall, re- 
member. 

277 : Ixxi-lxii. Byron has seldom elsewhere attained precisely 
the exquisite cadence and music and the subdued and reticent 
pathos of these two stanzas — 

" no dirge, except the hollow seas, 
Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades." 

CAIN. 

(Act II, Scene I.) 

In ' Cain ' Byron returns to the poetical treatment of some of 
the problems of evil, sin, death, immortality, fate, and faith, 
touched upon in 'Manfred.' This scene, however, is conspicuous 
above all else for the magnificent sweep of the imagination of in- 
terstellar space displayed in it. Three or four prototypes may 



NOTES 401 

have hovered before the poet's mind as he wrote, — Milton, perhaps, 
first of all, the 'Paradise Lost' (II, 927 ff.) and ' Paradise Re- 
gained'; then Dante's 'Paradiso'; many passages in the Bible; 
and possibly also Cicero's ' Somnium Scipionis ' (' De Republica,' 
bk. VI). 

More modern passages, where in part softiething of a similar 
sort of imagination is displayed, are to be found in Victor Hugo's 
*La-Haut' and 'La Comete ' (in * La Legende des Siecles,' II), 
or " O gouffre ! I'ame plonge et rapporte le doute " ('Les Con- 
templations,' II), 'Magnitude Parvi ' (' Les Contemplations,' I); 
D. G. Rossetti's 'Blessed Damozel'; Kipling's 'To Wolcott 
Balestier ' (Dedication to 'Barrack Room Ballads'); and Cowley's 
'The Ecstasy.' See also Chaucer's 'Parlement of Foules ' 
(Proem) ; Blake's ' Marriage of Heaven and Hell ' (passage begin- 
ning, "An Angel came to me"). 

'Cain' was partly planned as early as January, 1821, and was 
finished early in September of the same year. Byron wrote 
Murray: "I have a good opinion of the piece, as poetry; it is in 
my gay metaphysical style, and in the Manfred line." 

In the preceding portion of the drama Cain's discontent with 
the pious and accepted creed and the religious submission of his 
family is explained, as well as his determination to accompany 
his tempter, Lucifer, in the quest for boundless knowledge. Later 
occurs the murder of Abel. Byron in his preface warns us that 
we must remember that his personages speak strictly in character. 
"With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me 
to make him talk like a clergyman upon the same subjects." 
Here, too, some of the conceptions of modern science are early 
taken up into poetry. " The reader will perceive," Byron writes, 
"that the author has partly adopted in this poem the notion of 
Cuvier that the world had been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man."/ In explanation of the dramatic object in the 
unfolding of Cain's character served by this scene Byron writes: 
j" Cain is a proud man; if Lucifer promised him kingdom, etc., it 
would elate him; the object of the Demon is to depress him still 
further in his own estimation than he was before, by showing him 
infinite things and his own abasement, till he falls into the frame 
of mind that leads to the catastrophe , . . from the rage and 
fury against the inadequacy of his state to his conceptions." In 



40:5 AZOTES 

its own day ' Cain ' raised a great outcry from many of the 
ultra-orthodox, — a pother which now it is difficult to understand. 
Byron's own judgment seems just: "I really thought 'Cain' a 
speculative and hardy, but still a harmless, production." 

279 : I. I fear To sink, i.e., I fear lest I shall sink. 

279 : 4. Can I dS so ? i.e., have faith in Lucifer. 

279 : 7. i.e. Who refers to me before his angels as a demon. 

279 : 8. to 77iiserable things, i.e., to men. 

279 : 18. Cf. 'Matthew,' ch. xiv. 

280 : 29 ff. Are the details of the flight through chaos exactly 
such as they may be imagined as being from the successive points 
of view of the actors in it ? 

281 : 72. This is the consideration which gives Manfred 
pause. 

284 : 161-2. The meaning seems to be, that time and space 
have always existed and must ever be unchanged and as they 
have been. 

285 ! 175-176. For the world of phantoms to which "beings 
past " return and from which those '' still to come " emerge, com- 
pare the Garden of Adonis in Spenser's ' Faerie Queene ' III, vi, 
stanzas 29 ff. 

THE LYRICS. 

Byron's power in the pure lyric is doubtless inferior to that of 
four or five of his contemporaries. The central conception and 
the opening lines are often extremely good, but the later verses 
often fall off and he usually fails to give the delicate finish and the 
subtler note which we expect from Shelley, Coleridge, Keats, or 
Wordsworth. There are two veins which Byron especially culti- 
vates : the short, rounded lyric of sentiment, with musical asso- 
ciations, after the model of Tom Moore and the song-writers (as 
in 'When we two parted' or 'Maid of Athens') ; and the intro- 
spective and personal lyric or monody, such as ' Darkness ' or 
* The Dream.' A haunting, if somewhat obvious, cadence and 
sentiment, which permanently recommends them to the intimate 
memory of the reader, attaches to the best of them. Byron's se- 
lected lyrics have their own charm and atmosphere, and, in the 
best sense, are English classics. 



NOTES 403 

287. 'When We Two Parted.' Written 1808, in the poet's 
twentieth year. Published with 'Poems,' 1816. 

It is a frequent practice of Byron to admit lines apparently or 
actually longer or shorter by a foot than the norm of the stanza 
would seem to exact. So here lines 5 and 7 apparently require 
three stresses each. They, however, have each six syllables, 
like the corresponding lines in stanza 2, and musically or metri- 
cally can thus be read to the same time as the rest of the lines. 
For other and similar irregularities see p. 297 (different rhyme- 
scheme for each stanza), p. 299. (''There be none of Beauty's 
daughters," — the scansion throughout.) 

288. 'Maid OF Athens.' Written at Athens in 1810. Ad- 
dressed to the eldest daughter (Theresa Macri) of the widow of 
the vice-consul for England, at whose house Byron lodged during 
his first visit to Athens. She is described by a contemporary 
traveller (Hugh Williams, 'Travels in Italy, Greece,' etc.) as of 
middle stature, oval countenance, dark hair and eyes, and pleas- 
ing manners. Gait, however ('Life of Byron' p. 119), thinks 
that she "has been rendered more famous by his Lordship's 
verses than her degree of beauty deserved. She was a pale and 
pensive-looking girl, with regular Grecian features. Whether he 
really cherished any sincere attachment to her I much doubt." 
After his departure from Athens Byron wrote in a letter to his 
friend Drury : "I almost forgot to tell you that I am dying for 
love of three Greek girls at Athens, sisters. I lived in the same 
house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka are the names of these 
divinities, — all of them under fifteen." From this passage one 
can fairly judge the sincerity of the poet's attachment. All the 
better, perhaps, is the poetry itself. 

288 : 6. "Romaic expression of tenderness. ... It means, 
' My life, I love you ! ' which sounds very prettily in all lan- 
guages." [Byron's note. 

288 : 15. "In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, 
lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, 
etc., convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy 
of Mercury — an old woman." [Byron's note. 

288 : 21. Istambol. Constantinople. 

289. 'And Thou Art Dead.' Written in February, 1812. 
I am not aware that it is to be attached to any circumstance in 



404 NOTES 

the poet's life, but it was written not long after the deaths of his 
mother and of several of the friends of his youth, which deeply 
affected him. With this stimulus the poem may very well have 
been written directly from the Latin text which is prefixed to it, 
which is echoed in the concluding lines, and which Moore also 
paraphrased in the poem mentioned below. 

289 : I. For the motto, cf. Shenstone, 'Inscription on an Orna- 
mented Urn ' (To Miss Dolman : in Chalmers' Poets, xiii, 330). 
Translated by Moore : 

"^To live with them is far less sweet, 
Than to remember thee." 

Moore's poem ('I saw thy form in youthful prime,' in the 
< Irish Melodies'), written in a stanza of which Byron's seems to 
be a modification, and upon a similar theme and from the same 
motto or text, was probably Byron's starting-point in this lyric. 
Byron was a great admirer of Moore's songs. The two poems 
may be compared with profit. They exhibit strikingly the dif- 
ferences in diction, tone of sentiment, and lyric method of the two 
poets. 

291 : -'Clime of the Unforgotten Brave ! " From 'The 
Giaour,' written and published in the spring of 1813, — a poem to 
which a motto from Moore is prefixed. 

292 : "Know ye the Land." From 'The Bride of Abydos,' 
written in November, and published early in December, 18 13. 
These form the opening lines of the poem and are written in a 
different metre from the rest. These lines were written as an 
after-thought, while the poem was passing through the press. 
They suggest at once Goethe's famous lyric, prefixed to the first 
chapter of the third book of ' Wilhelm Meister ' : 

" Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen bluhn, 
Im dunkeln Laub die Goldorangen gluhn, 
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, 
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht ? 
Kennst du es wohl ? — Dahin ! Dahin 
Mocht ich mit dir, O mein Geliebter, ziehn," etc. 

The resemblance, however, is merely in general theme and 
coloring. Byron has not followed his model very closely, if 
Goethe were his model. As he did not read German, this last 



NOTES 405 

seems doubtful. He, however, was accused of borrowing these 
lines from Madame de Stael's paraphrase : 

" Cette terre, ou les myrtes fleurissent, 
Ou les rayons des cieux tombent avec amour, 
Ou des sons enchanteurs dans les airs retentissent, 
Ou la plus douce nuit succede au plus beau jour," 

This charge the Countess of Blessington ('Conversations with 
Byron,' 326) reports him as denying. In any event, while the 
motive is the same, the resemblance otherwise is merely a vague 
and general one. The lines as given above are from the Countess 
of Blessington's book. In Madame de Stael's ' L'Allemagne ' 
(ch. xxviii) only the first line is given, and that in another form, 
viz. : 

" Connais-tu cette terre ou les citronniers fleurissent." 

The measure is a four-foot verse of free anapsestic movement. 

292 : 8. Gjil. The rose. [Byron's note. 

293: "O'er the Glad Waters of the Dark-blue Sea." 
The opening lines of 'The Corsair,' written in December, 1813, 
and published in January, 18 14. The poem is written in heroic 
couplets. The first line, however, is rhythmically exceedingly 
irregular, although metrically regular, producing thus a strong 
effect of rapidity and animation. The management of cadence 
and pause in this entire passage may be studied with advantage. 

294: ''Slow Sinks, more Lovely ere his Race be Run." 
The opening lines of the third canto of 'The Corsair,' 1813-14. 
These lines, however, as Byron tells us in a note, were written in 
18 11 for another (unpublished) poem, — and so may the more 
justifiably here be detached from ' The Corsair ' as a whole. 
"They were," he says, "written on the spot," — i.e., at Athens. 

Could a painter comprehend the picture, here given, on one 
canvas ? What does the poet here give which the painter could 
not give ? 

294 : 7. Idra's isle. Idra, otherwise Hydra, an island off the 
east coast of the Morea. 

294 : 22. " Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
simset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of 
his disciples to wait till the sun went down." [Byron's note. 



406 NOTES 

295 : 29. CithixrorCs head. A mountain in Boeotia, northwest 
from Athens. 

295 : 33. high Hyniethis. A mountain two miles southeast 
from Athens. 

295 : 42. meek Cephisus. The smaller stream of this name, in 
Attica. 

295 : 44, 46. "The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the 
palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall inter- 
venes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no 
stream at all." [Byron's note. 

296 : " She Walks in Beauty." The first among the so-called 
'Hebrew Melodies,' written in December, 1814, and published in 
18 15. The volume was intended for the use of the modem Israel- 
ites, the music being written or arranged by Messrs. Nathan and 
Braham. At the solicitation of his friend the Hon. Douglas Kin- 
naird, Byron consented to write a number of songs for the col- 
lection. 

The editor of the 1832 edition of Byron's Works appends the 
following note to this lyric: "These stanzas were written by 
Lord Byron on returning from a ballroom, where he had seen 
Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation, the 
present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. W. H. had 
appeared in mourning, with num.erous spangles on her dress." 

296 : 3. The meaning is made more explicit in 1. 7. 

296; 5. Thus inellowed. i.e., through the meeting "in her 
aspect and her eyes." 

296: "If that High World." Also from the 'Hebrew 
Melodies,' 18 14. 

296 : 2. Love is the subject of the sentence. 

297: 14. The phrase is elliptical; after " shares " is under- 
stood some such phrase as " mutual love with it." 

297: "Oh! Snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom." From 
the 'Hebrew Melodies,' 1814. 

297: "When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay." 
From the ' Hebrew Melodies,' 18x4. 

298. The Destruction of Sennacherib. From the 'He- 
brew Melodies,' 1814. 

Cf. II ' Kings ' xviii-xix, esp. xviii, 13; " Now in the fourteenth 



NOTES 407 

year of king Hezekiah did Sennacherib, king of Assyria, come up 
against all the fenced cities of^Judah, and took them." Also xix, 
35: *' And it came to pass that night that the angel of the Lord 
went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four- 
score and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morn- 
ing, behold, they were all dead corpses." Cf. also II 'Chronicles' 
xxxii, and ' Isaiah ' xxxvi-vii. 

299:21. the widoxas of Ashur, i.e. of Assyria, the ancient 
Semitic kingdom of Asshur, or perhaps one of its capitals, the 
city of the same name. 

299 : "There be None of Beauty's Daughters." Written 
in 1815, as ''Stanzas for Music." Published 1816. 

The rhythmical scansion of these two stanzas is difficult, if not 
practically impossible, after any consistent scheme. As they 
were written for music, however, the metrical %c2,x\s\QXi is the more 
important. This seems to require the scheme 4, 3, 4, 3, 4, 3,4, 4 
(i.e. a four-foot line, a three-foot, etc.), with allowance ©of a full 
rest or pause to complete the defective foot in each seven- syllabled 
line. 

299 : 3. Cf. 'Manfred,' I, i, 177. 

300: So we'll go no more a-roving. Sent in the poet'.- 
letter of February 28, 181 7, from Venice to Moore, introduced 
with the following words: " The Carnival — that is, the latter part 
of it, and sitting up late o' nights, had knocked me up a little. 
But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with all its abstinence and 
sacred music. The mumming closed with a masked ball at the 
Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the ridottos, etc., etc.; 
and, though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find 
'the sword wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but just 
turned the corner of twenty -nine. 

So, we'll go no more a-roving," etc. . . . 

300. "O, Talk not to me of a Name Great in Story." 
Otherwise headed ' Stanzas written on the road between Florence 
and Pisa.' Written in the autumn of 182 1. 

301. Song of the South-Sea Islanders. From ' The 
Island,' written early in 1823, and published in June of the same 
year. The poem as a whole is chiefly concerned with the story 
of the mutiny of the Bounty^ and, as Byron tells us, is founded 



408 NOTES 

on Bligh's ' Narrative of the Mutiny and Seizure of the Bounty, in 
the South Seas, in 1789,' and on Mariner's ' Account of the Tonga 
Islands.' This passage occurs at the beginning of canto 11. 

301 : I ff. " The first three sections are taken from an actual 
song of the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is given 
in • Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands. ' Toobonai is not, 
however, one of them ; but was one of those where . . . the muti- 
neers took refuge. I have altered and added, but have retained 
as much as possible of the original." [Byron's note. — This 
"original," in the prose translation mentioned, is as follows : 

" Whilst we were talking of Vavdoo toa Licoo, the women said to 
us, let us repair to the back of the island to contemplate the setting 
sun : there let us listen to the warbling of the birds and the cooing of 
the M-ood-pigeon. We will gather flowers from the burying-place at 
Matdwto, and partake of refreshments prepared for us at Licoo One : 
we will then bathe in the sea, and rinse ourselves in the Vdoo Aca ; 
we will anoint our skins in the sun with sweet scented oil, and will 
plait in wreaths the flowers gathered at Matdwto. And now as we 
stand motionless on the eminence over Ana Mdnoo, the whistling of 
the wind among the branches of the lofty toa shall fill us with a pleas- 
ing melancholy ; or our minds shall be seized with astonishment as we 
behold the roaring surf below, endeavouring but in vain to tear away 
the firm rocks. Oh ! how much happier shall we be thus employed, 
than when engaged in the troublesome and insipid affairs of life ! 

Now as night comes on, we must return to the Mooa : But hark ! — 
hear you not the sound of the mats ? — they are practising a bo-o6la * 
to be performed to-night on the maldi at Taneo, Let us also go 
there. How will that scene of rejoicing call to our minds the many 
festivals held there, before Vavdoo was torn to pieces by war ! Alas, 
how destructive is war ! Behold ! how it has rendered the land pro- 
ductive of weeds, and opened untimely graves for departed heroes ! 
Our chiefs can now no longer enjoy the sweet pleasures of wandering 
alone by moonlight in search of their mistresses. But let us banish 
sorrow from our hearts : since we are at war, we must think and act 
like the natives of Fiji, who first taught us this destructive art. Let 
us therefore enjoy the present time, for to-morrow perhaps, or the next 
day, we may die. We will dress ourselves with chi coola, and put 
bands of white tdppa round our waists. We will plait thick wreaths 
oi jiale for our heads, and prepare strings of hooni for our necks, that 
their whiteness may show off the colour of our skins. Mark how the 

* " A kind of dance performed by torch-light." 



NOTES 409 

uncultivated spectators are profuse of their applause ! — But now the 
dance is over : let us remain here tonight and feast and be cheerful, 
and tomorrow we will depart for the Mooa. How troublesome are the 
young men, begging for our wreaths of flowers, while they say in their 
flattery, ' See how charming these young girls look coming from 
Licoo ! — how beautiful are their skins, diffusing around a fragrance like 
the flowery precipice of Mataloco ' : — Let us also visit Licoo. We 
will depart to-morrow." (Mariner's Account, etc., 1827 ed., I, 244.) 

In the same place is given a poetical version in eight-line 
stanzas (by *'a literary friend "). A more strictly literal prose 
version also is given in vol. II, at page xl of the Appendix. 
Byron, however, seems to have used only the version quoted 
above. The author notes that "it is perhaps a curious cir- 
cumstance that love and war seldom form the subjects of their 
poetical compositions, but mostly scenery and moral reflections." — 
In what sense are Byron's verses original poetry ? What is the 
most important element in poetic originality ? 

301 : 10. tooa. " A superior sort of yam " (Mariner). 

302 : 29. Mooa. "Place where the chiefs, etc., dwell" 
(Mariner). 

302 : 30. ^^ Mats" are a common article of clothing in the 
Tonga Islands, according to Mariner. 

302 : 32. Marly, or Malai, " a piece of ground, generally be- 
fore a large house, or chiefs grave, where public ceremonies are 
principally held" (Mariner). 

302 : 45. Cava, the pepper-plant, from which an intoxicating 
drink is prepared. 

302 : 49- Tappa. ' ' A substance used for clothing, prepared 
from the bark of the Chinese paper mulberry tree " (Mariner). 

302 : 50. Hooni. A kind of flower. 

302 : 58. ^^ Licoo is the name given to the back or unfre- 
-quented part of any island " (Mariner). 

303. On this day I Complete my thirty-sixth Year. 
Byron's last poem, written in Greece a few weeks before his death. 

303 : 5. Cf. < Macbeth,' V, iii, 23 : 

"my way of life 
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf." 

The following passage is from an article on Byron in Black- 
tvood's Magazine^ 1825 : 



4IO NOTES 

"The last poem he wrote was produced upon his birthday, not 
many weeks before he died. We consider it as one of the finest and 
most touching effusions of his noble genius. . . . The deep and 
passionate struggles with the inferior elements of his nature (and 
ours) which it records — the lofty thirsting after purity — the 
heroic devotion of a soul half weary of life, because unable to 
believe in its own powers to live up to what it so intensely felt to 
be, and so reverentially honoured as, the right — the whole picture 
of this mighty spirit, often darkened, but never sunk, often 
erring, but never ceasing to see and to worship the beauty of 
virtue — the repentance of it, the anguish, the aspiration, almost 
stifled in despair — the whole of this is such a whole that we are 
sure no man can read these solemn verses too often." 



1 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 7 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 273 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 289 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour 270 

* Bring forth the horse ! ' The horse was brought 223 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 291 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven I — but thou, alas 25 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 155 

Hail to our master ! — Prince of Earth and Air 192 

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai 301 

If that high world, which lies beyond 296 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream 220 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs 92 

I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 279 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 51 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 292 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 288 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains 170 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bowed 170 

My hair is gray, but not with years 155 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying i 

O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea 293 

O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 297 

O talk not to me of a name great in story 300 

O, thou ! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth 3 

Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world 213 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean — roll 151 

She walks in beauty, like the night 296 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run 294 

411 



412 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

So, we'll go no more a -roving 300 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy laruin afar 42 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 298 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 69 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece 263 

The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 168 

The ship, call'd the most holy ' Trinidada ' 238 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 299 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 151 

There was a sound of revelry by night 58 

Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing 262 

'Tis time this heart should be unmov'd 303 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay 297 

When the moon is on the wave 175 

When we two parted 287 



^* I do not know where else, within the limits, to find so delightful 
a selection of noble poems:'— Prof Tliomas R. Price of Columbia. 

PANCOAST^S STANDARD ENGLISH POEMS 

From Spenser to Tennyson. Selected and edited by HENRY 
S. Pancoast, author of An Introduction to English Litera- 
ture, etc. 749 pp. i6mo. $1.50, net. 

Some 250 complete poems, besides selections from such long 
poems as "The Faerie Queene," " Childe Harold's Pilgrim- 
age," etc. 

There are ig pages of Ballads, 33 of Spenser, 22 of Elizabethan 
Songs and Lyrics, 16 of Elizabethan Sonnets, 51 of Seven- 
teenth Century Songs, 51 of verse from Dryden to Thomson, 
277 of verse from Thomson to Tennyson, and 100 of Victorian 
verse, 164 of Notes (chiefly biographical and appreciative), 
and an index of titles. 

New York Tribune : "We believe it will be received cordially 
by all lovers of poetry, whether elementary students or not. Basing 
his selections on the individual excellence and historic importance 
of the poems, the editor has not allowed his fidelity to the latter test 
to overrule his taste, and there is very little matter in the book 
which is historically significant alone. First and last, this is an 
anthology of the best poetry." 

Prof. Henry A. Beers of Yale, author of " English Romanticism in 
the Eighteenth Century," etc.: " The collection seems to me in gen- 
eral made with excellent judgment, and the notes are sensible, help- 
ful, and not too weitldufig:'' 

Prof. Albert S. Cook of Yale : "A thoroughly good selection, and 
the notes are judicious, so far as I have examined." 

Prof. William Hand Browne of Johns Hopkins: "The scope is 
amply wide, and the selections as judicious as was possible under the 
limitations. The notes, judging from a hasty glance, seem full and 
clear." 

Prof. Charles W. Kent of the University of Virginia : "Contains 
nearly all the poems I would wish in such a volume and very few 
that I would readily dispense with." 

Prof. James M. Dixon of "Washington University: "It is just 
such a handy volume as can be made, by a sympathetic teacher, a 
companion to the scholar for life." 

HENRY HOLT & CO., 3;iw.^isifiv.^rchL''i\ 

i igoo 



'* Will Interest the old hardly less than the young** 

— Chicago Evening Pott 

LUCAS^ A BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN 

Over 200 poems, representing- some 80 authors. Compiled by 
Edward Verrall Lucas. With title-page and cover-lining pic- 
tures in color by F. D. Bedford, two other illustrations, and white 
cloth cover in three colors and gilt. Revised edition, izmo. $2.00. 

Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr. ; " David Copperfield remembered 
learning to walk, and Pierre Loti remembers the tirst time he jumped, 
I think. My earliest recollections are of being sung to sleep by my 
father, who used to sing for that purpose 'The British Grenadiers' 
and other old-time songs. At about the same period it must have 
been that my mother introduced me to 'Meddlesome Mattie ' and 
' George and the Chimney-sweep.' It was, therefore, with a rush of 
recollection that on opening 'A Book of Verses for Children' com- 
piled by Edward Verrall Lucas I discovered not only these three 
classics but many another lovely thing by Ann and Jane Taylor, Eliza- 
beth Turner, and others, as well as more modern poems by Stevenson 
and Lewis Carroll. 'Can it be,' thought I, 'that children nowadays 
will stand Ann and Jane Taylor?' An opportunity of experiment 
came very soon. 1 happened to have the book under my arm the next 
day as I stopped to see some friends. They were out, so I asked for 
the children and had afternoon tea with real tea-things in company 
•with a large and very beautiful doll, and afterward skated about the 
hall on what had originally been toy freight-cars. At last I asked if 
poems would be acceptable. The proposal was received with favor, 
and I was soon seated on a large trunk with Miss Geraldine on one side 
and Mr. Bartlett on the other. I began with a safe one, ' The Walrus 
and the Carpenter,' but went on with the Taylorian ' Birds, Beasts, and 
Fishes.' This took very well. I tried another modern (not to push a 
good thing into the ground), and then went on with * Tommy and his 
Sister Jane.' This also succeeded, so I continued with others and 
others. We were finally interrupted in our delightful occupation, but 
I regarded the experiment as successful. ... I know of nothing 
better to say of this book than the strictly accurate and unvarnished 
account I have just given. For my own part I thought it one of the 
most delightful books I had seen for a long time. 

Critic : " We know of no other anthology for children so complete 
and well arranged." 

J^ezv York Tribune : " The book remains a good one ; it contains 
so much that is charming, so much that is admirably in tune with the 
spirit of childhood. Moreover, the few colored decorations with 
which it is supplied are extremely artistic, and the cover is exception- 
ally attractive." 

Churchman : " Beautiful in its gay cover, laid paper, and decorated 
title-page. Mr. Edward Verrall Lucas has made the selections with 
nice discrimination and an intimate knowledge of children's needs 
and capacities. Many of the selections are classic, all are refined and 
excellent. The book is valuable as a household treasure." 

Bookman : " A very satisfactory book for its purpose, and has in it 
much that is not only well adapted to please and interest a rational 
child, but that is good, sx)und literature also." 

Poet Lore : " A child could scarcely get a choicer range of verse to 
roll over in his mind, or be coaxed to it by a prettier volume. ... A 
book to take note of against Christmas and all the birthday gift times 
of the whole year round." 

HENRY HOLT & CO. ^^ ^K^eVltrl""" 



•' One of the most important books on Music that has ever 
been published.'' — W. J. HENDERSON, Musical Critic of ^.^, 
Times. 

LAVIGNAC'S MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 



Translated by William Marchant. Edited by H. E. Krehbiel. 
With 94 illustrations and 510 examples in musical notation. 2d 
Edition. 504 pp. 8vo. $3.00. 

Dial : " If one had to restrict his musical library to a single volume, we 
doubt whether he could do better than select the work called 'Music and 
Musicians.' . . . We find in this new volume the same lucidity of exposi- 
tion, the same economy of arrangement, and the same comprehensiveness, 
... in fact, although not in form, a veritable encyclopaedia of music, 
and will be found equally satisfactory as a work of reference and as a 
text-book for the actual study of counterpoint, the structure of instru- 
ments, the history of music, and the physical basis of musical production. 
A few supplementary pages, by Mr. H. E. Krehbiel, add American com- 
posers to M. Lavignac's list, and put the finishing touch of usefulness 
upon a work which we cordially recommend to both students and general 
readers." 

"It is impossible to speak too highly of this volume" {Literary 
Review, Boston). — "The most comprehensive reference-work on music 

f)ublished in a single volume and accessible to readers of English" 
Revie^v 0/ Reviews). — "An encyclopaedia from which all manner of 
curious facts may be drawn" {Literary World'). — "A musical library 
in W.^e.M'''' {Chicago Tribune). — "A cyclopaedia of knowledge concern- 
ing his art " {Christian Register). — " It adds a great deal that the 
student of music is not likely to get elsewhere " {Springfield Re- 
publican). — "The most complete and perfect work of its kind" {The 
Home Journal, New York). — " For the musical student and music teacher 
invaluable if not indispensable " {Buffalo Commercial).— ^^ He has ap- 
portioned his pages with rare good judgment " {Churchman).—"^ It is of 
all things thorough " {Brooklyn Eagle). — " There is nothing superfi- 
cial about it " {Hartford Courant). — " it has a reliability and authority 
which give it the highest value " {Chicago Tribune). — " Distinctly scien- 
tific " {Providence Journal). — " It seems to have been his desire to let no 
interesting topic escape. . . . The wonder is that those parts of the book 
which ought to be dry are so readable. ... A style which can fairly 
be described as fascinating " (A''. Y. Times). — " Free from superfluous 
technicalities" {Providence Journal). — " He has covered the field with 
French clarity and German thoroughness'' {S/ringjfeld Republican). 
— " Not too technical to be exceedingly useful and enjoyable to every 
intelligent reader '''' {Hartford Courant).— " Lishiened with interesting 
anecdotes" {Brooklyn Eagle).— '■'• We writes brilliantly : even the laziest 
or most indifferent will find that he chains the attention and makes a 
perusal of the history of music a delightful recreation " {N. Y. Home 
Journal). 

" Capitally indexed. . . . Mr. Marchant has done his hard task of trans- 
lating exceedingly well " {Transcripf) .—" . . . The pictures of the instru- 
ments are clear and helpful " (A''. Y. Times'). — "An unusually handsome 
book" {Musical Record). — "This superb volume" {The Watchman).— 
"This handsome volume, . . . elegantly printed on the best of paper, 
and the illustrations are numerous" (Christian Register). — "An excellent 
translator " {Providence Journal). — " Well translated " {School and Home 
Education). — "The translation is excellent; . . .handsomely bound" 
(Home Journal). 

HENRY HOLT & CO.. V,7^^^^hf^l2^. 

XII '99 



RINGWALT'S AMERICAN ORATORY 

Selections, with introduction and notes, by Ralph C. Ringwalt, formerly 
Instructor in Columbia University. 334 pp. lamo. $1.00, net. 

Contains Schurz's General Avrtnesty. Jeremiah S. Black's Trial by Jury, 
Phillips's Daniel O'Gonnell, Depew's Inaug-uration of Washington^ Curtis's 
The Leadership of Educated /lien, Henry W. Grady's The New South, and 
Beecher's The Sepulchre in the Garden. 

Prof. F. N. Scott, University of Michigan : " An extremely sensible 
book." 

Prof. D. L. Maulsby, Tufts College : " The opening^ essay is the best 
on its subject that I have seen of recent years. It shows grasp on both the 
early and later literature of the subject, and is thoroughly alive to modern 
conditions." 

Prof. A. G. Newcomer, Letand Stanford University : " The essay 
on the theory of oratory is one of the most sensible and at the same time stim- 
ulating essays of the kind 1 have ever seen." 

Prof. Ralph W. Thomas, Colgate University : "It is a work that 
the individual student should have constantly at hand." 



ALDEN'S ART OF DEBATE 

By Dr. R. M. Alden, University of Pennsylvania, xv + 279 PP« x6mo. 
$1.00, net. 

Prof. Wm. C. Thayer, Lehigh University : " An excellent book, well 
put together, fresh and up-to-date. I shall use it, if the opportunity occurs." 

WAGNER'S MODERN POLITICAL ORATIONS (British) 

Edited by Leopold Wagner. XV + 344PP. lamo. %i. 00, net. 

A collection of some of the most notable examples of the political oratory of 
the present reign. Includes Brougham on Negro Emancipation ; Fox and 
Cobden on the Corn Laws ; Brighton the Suspension of Habeas Corpus Act; 
Butt and Morley on Home Rule ; Gladstone on the Beaconsfield Ministry ; 
Parnell on the Coercion Bill ; and others by Beaconsfield, Russell, Randolph 
Churchill, Chamberlain, Macaulay, Bulwer-Lytton, McCarthy, etc., etc. 

POLITICAL PAMPHLETS 

By Burke, Steele, Saxby, Halifax, Arbuthnot, Swift, Bolingbroke, and 
"Junius." Edited by A. F. Pollard. Bound in one volume. Pamph- 
let Library. i2mo. Cloth, $1.75, net, special. 

The Nation: "The selections are very well chosen. . . . Deserves well of 
book-buyers in point of matter and form." 

HENRY HOLT & CO. ^^ ^^:l.^^%S''^^^ 

IX, 1900 



jEuGltsb IReaMnas tor Students. 

English masterpieces in editions at once competently edited and 
inexpensive. The aim is to Jill vacancies now existing because of 
subject, treatment, or price. Prices given below are i^'iLT. i6mo. Cloth, 

Arnold (Matthew): Prose Selections. Edited by Prof. Lewis 
E. Gates of Harvard. xci + 34S pp. 90c. 

Includes : The Function of Criticism, First Lecture on Translating 
Homer, Literature and Science, Culture and Anarchy, Sweetness and 
Light, Compulsory Education, "Life a Dream," Emerson, and 
twelve shorter selections, including America. 

Prof. Bliss Perry 0/ Princeton : " The selections seem to me most happy, 
and the introduction is even better, if possible, than his introduction to the New- 
man volume. Indeed, I have read no criticism of Arnold's prose which appears 
to me as luminous and just, and expressed with such literary charm." 

Browning : Selected Lyrical and Dramatic Poems. With the 
essay on Browning from E. C. Stedman's "Victorian Poets." 
Edited by Edward T. Mason. 275 pp. 60c. 

Burke : Selections. Edited by Bliss Perry, sometime Professor 
in Princeton, xxvi+298 pp. 60c. 

Contents : Speeches at Arrival at Bristol, at Conclusion of the 
Poll ; Letters to the Marquis of Rockingham, to the Sheriffs of 
Bristol, and to a Noble Lord ; Address to the King ; Selections 
from the Sublime and the Beautiful, from Thoughts on the Present 
Discontents, from Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts, from 
Impeachment of Hastings (2), from Reflections on the Revolution in 
France (7, including Fiat Money). 

Edward Dowden, the author and critic: "They seem to me admirably 
chosen and arranged, and the introduction brings various aspects of Burke's mind 
truly and vividly before the reader." 

Coleridge : Prose Extracts. Edited by Prof. Henry A. Beers 
of Yale. xix+i48pp. 50c. 

The selections, varying in length from a paragraph to ten or 
twenty pages, are mainly from Table Talk and Biographia Literaria, 
but also from Notes on Shakespeare, etc. 
vii, 1900 



English Readings for Students. 



De Quincey : Joan of Arc ; The Mail Coach. Edited by Prof. 
James Morgan Hart of Cornell, xxvi-l-138 pp. 50c. 

The introduction sketches De Quincey's life and style. Allusions 
and other difficult points are explained in the notes. This volume 
and the Essays on BoswelVs Johnson (see under Macaulay) are used 
at Cornell for elementary rhetorical study. 

Dryden : Essays on the Drama. Edited by Dr. Wm. Strunk, 
Jr., of Cornell. xxxviii-}-i8o pp. 50c. 

This volume contains The Essay of Dramatic Poesy and, among 
the critical prefaces, Of Heroic Plays and The Grounds of Criticism 
in Tragedy. These are not only excellent specimens of Classical 
English, but also have a high reputation for the value of their literary 
opinions. The introduction, besides treating of Dryden's life and 
prose style, sets forth clearly how he used the theories of the drama 
which he found in Aristotle, Horace, and Corneille. 

Ford: The Broken Heart. A Spartan Tragedy in verse. 
Edited by Prof. Clinton Scollard of Hamilton College. 
xvi-|-i32 pp. 50c. (Buckram, 70c.) 

A play notable for its repressed emotion and psychological interest. 
Charles Lamb wrote : " I do not know where to find in any play a 
catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising as this " [of The 
Broken Heart \. 

Johnson : Rasselas. Edited by Prof. Oliver Farrar Emerson 
of Adelbert. Ivi-f-i79 pp. 50c. (Buckram, 70c.) 

The introduction treats of Johnson's style, the circumstances under 
which Rasselas was written, and its place in the history of fiction. 
The notes explain allusions and trace the sources of some ot 
Johnson's materials. 

Landor : Selections from the Imaginary Conversations, 

Edited by Prof. A. G. Newcomer of Stanford University, 
lix-f-i66 pp. 50c. 

Sixteen of the " Conversations," which have been chosen especially 
because of their vital and stimulating character, which appeals 
strongly to the young student, 
vii, 1900 2 



ncv-4is';^ 



English fadings for Students. 



Lyly : Endymion. Edited by Prof. Geo. P. Baker of Harvard. 
cxcvi-|-i09 pp. 85c. 

The Academy, London: — " It is refreshing to come upon such a piece of 
sterling work ; . . , the most complete and satisfactory account of Lyly that 
has yet appeared." 

Macaulay and Carlyle : Essays on Samuel Johnson. Edited 
by Dr. William Strunk of Cornell, xl-j-igi pp. 50c. 

These two essays present a constant contrast in intellectual and 
moral methods of criticism, and offer an excellent introduction to the 
study of the literary history of Johnson's times. 

Marlowe : Edward II. With the best passages from Tamburlaine 
the Great, and from his Poems. Edited by the late Prof. 
Edward T. McLaughlin of Yale, xxi+180 pp. 50c. 

Edtvard II. is not only a remarkable play, but is of great interest 
in connection with Shakespere's Richard II. A comparison of the 
two plays is sketched in the introduction. 

Newman : Prose Selections. Edited by Prof. Lewis E. Gates 
of Harvard, lxii-j-228 pp. 50c. 

Prof. R. G. Moulton <?/" University 0/ Chicago : " I am generally suspicious 
of books of selections, but 1 think Newman makes an exceptional case. . . The 
selection seems excellent, and the introduction is well balanced between points of 
form and matter. The whole has one special merit : it is interesting in a high 
degree." 

Tennyson : The Princess. Edited, with introduction, notes, and 
analytic questions, by Prof. L. A. Sherman of the University 
of Nebraska, lxi-f-185 pp. 60c. 

N. E. Journal of Education : — "The pupil will gain materially from such 
a thorough and discerning study of the poem as this edition presents." 

Thackeray : English Humorists. Edited, with an introduction 
and notes, by Prof. Wm. Lyon Phelps of Yale. 

The features of this new edition are a brief biographical and 
critical introduction, together with explanatory and critical notes. 
The notes explain all literary and other allusions. 

HENRY HOLT & CO., |?s^a1?ifxv^rcMcrg„. 

vii, 1900 3 



English %eadin!^{'''^'''^'' 



^ , ^ ^ ;.-K Edited by Prof. 

Specimens of prosc ^.^iv^i.^^-. v 

Forms of Discourse. Edited by Prof. E. H. Lewis of ] 

Institute, Chicago. 367 pp. i6mo. 60c., nef. v-aiutT 

A compact manual, illustrated by 58 selections, ch' ^^^ our \ 
contemporary authors, and designed to cover the field -^.tne,four^ 
volumes below, where there is not time for such extender wo^; * 



\ 



Prose Narration. Edited by Dr. W. T. Brewster of Columbia. * 
xxxviii-|-209 pp. i6mo. 50c., neL 

Includes Selections from Scott, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Jane 
Austen, George Eliot, Stevenson, and Henry James. Part I. Ele- 
ments — Plot, Character, Setting, and Purpose. II. Combination 
of the Elements. III. Various Kinds. IV. Technique of Good 
Narrative. 

Prose Description. Edited by Dr. Chas. Sears Baldwin, 
of Yale. xlviii4-i45 pp. i6mo. 50c., ne^. 

Includes: Ancient Athens (Newman); Pans before the Second 
Empire (du Maurier); Byzantium (Gibbon); Geneva (Ruskin); The 
Storming of the Bastille (Carlyle); La Gioconda, etc. (Pater); Blois 
(Henry James); Spring in a Side Street (Brander Matthews). 

Exposition. Edited by Prof. Hammond Lamont of Brown. 
xxiv-}-i8o pp. i6mo. 50c., ne/. 

Includes: Development of a Brief ; G. C. V. Holmes on the Steam- 
engine ; Huxley on the Physical Basis of Life ; Bryce on the U. S. 
Constitution ; " The Nation" on the Unemployed ; Matthew Arnold 
on Wordsworth ; etc. 

Argumentation. Modern. Edited by Prof. Geo. P. Baker of 

Harvard, 186 pp. i6mo. 50c., nef. 

Chatham on the withdrawal of troops from Boston, Lord Mans- 
field's argument in the Evans case, the first letter of Junius, the first 
of Huxley's American addresses on evolution, Erskine's defence of 
Lord George Gordon, etc., and specimen brief. 

HENRY HOLT & CO., 378^a*bash*Av^.^,^h?cago, 
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